You’d ha’ thought, would you not, that it was now all over at last? His army had been thrashed out of sight, he’d confessed with bitter tears that there was no resisting such weapons, and he’d asked Rassam to make peace for him. He changed his mind in the course of the night, which he spent getting raging drunk, and vowing that he’d be damned before he’d sue to Napier, but by dawn he was seeing reason again (for the time being) and I was treated to the sight of Prideaux, in full fig, limping down from Magdala to get his marching orders from the Emperor: he, and one of the German prisoners, a preacher named Flad, were to go with one of Theodore’s sons-in-law, a nervous weed named Alamee, to open negotiations with Napier.
His majesty was in his sunniest mood by now, inquiring after Prideaux’s health, pressing drink on him, and complimenting him on his appearance—at which I couldn’t help smiling approval, for our jaunty subaltern was putting on dog in no uncertain manner. His old red coat was sponged and pressed, his whiskers shone with pomade, his cap was on three hairs, his cane under his arm, and his monocle in his eye. Rule Britannia, thinks I, and stamped my heel in reply to the barra salaam (* Big salute.) he threw me as he and his com panions rode down to Napier’s head-quarters beyond Arogee. Theodore watched their progress through his glass from the summit of Selassie, and was much gratified when one of his scouts panted up to report that the party had been received with cheering and hats in the air.
If he thought that this natural rejoicing at seeing two of the pris oners free at last was a happy omen, he was brought back to earth when they returned in the afternoon with Napier’s reply. By then his mood had changed for the worse, thanks to his chiefs, who came to the Selassie summit en masse to point out that he still had nine-tenths of his army in good fettle, and if they fell on Napier by night, when artillery and rockets would be useless, they could make him sorry he’d ever crossed the Bechelo. Whether Theodore believed this or not, he was looking damned surly by the time Prideaux and Flad and Alamee returned to inform him that Napier’s terms amounted to unconditional surrender, with the prisoners freed and Theodore willing to “submit to the Queen of England", with a promise that he’d be given honourable treatment.
Reasonable enough, considering the trouble and expense we’d been at, and the barbarous way he’d behaved, wouldn’t you say? But you ain’t the descendant of Solomon and Sheba, with notions of imperial grandeur, unable even to contemplate submitting your sacred person to the representative of a mere woman who’d added injury to insult by ignoring your letter and then invading your country. Just to show you how far he was from understanding us, his first question was: did honourable treatment mean we’d assist him against his enemies, and would we look after his family—wives, concubines, numerous offspring, etc?
Flad, who interpreted, put this to Prideaux, who said, being an honest English lad from a good home, that we’d do the decent thing, goodness me. Flad was explaining this in diplomatic terms when Alamee, who’d been hopping nervously as Theodore’s scowl grew blacker, seized his majesty’s arm and drew him out of earshot, chattering twenty to the dozen.
“Talkin’ sense into him, I hope,” says Prideaux to me. “Is the feller changin’ his mind? His army don’t look like surrenderin’, I must say!” Nor did they, ranged in their silent thousands on the lower slopes of Selassie beneath us, and on Fala across the way. “Never saw so many glowerin’ faces! Well, he’d better swallow the terms, ’cos they’re the best he’ll get—what, after the way he’s carried on, keepin’ us chained for two years, torturin’ poor old Cameron, butcherin’ his own folk right and left! The man’s a blasted Attila! And if he expects Napier to just say, ‘So long, old fellow!’ and pack his traps, he’s sadly mistaken!”
“He’s mad, remember,” I told him—and what happened next bore me out, for Theodore began to rage and stamp as Alamee pleaded with him. “Please, Father, there is no hope!” he was crying. “The choice is surrender or death! The English dedjaz swears that if a hair of the Europeans’ heads is touched, he will tarry here five years if need be to punish the murderers—his words, Father, not mine!”
“Be silent, imbecile!” bawls Theodore, and there and then sat himself down on a rock and dictated a reply to Napier at the top of his voice, while we and his chiefs and minions listened in dis belief. For you never heard such stuff, starting off with a Theodoric rant about the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and then a great harangue—not addressed to Napier, but to the people of Abyssinia, and how they’d fled before the enemy, and turned their backs on him, and hated him, after the way he’d fed their multitudes, the maidens protected and unprotected, the women made widows at Arogee, and aged parents without children… amazing babble, while he glared up at the heavens and his admiring court exclaimed in awe.
“He’s slipped his cable,” mutters Prideaux. “God help us!”
But now Theodore seemed to remember to whom he was writing, for he complained that Napier had prevailed by military discipline, the implication being that it wasn’t fair “and my followers who loved me were frightened by one bullet, and fled in spite of my commands. When you defeated them, I was not with the fugitives. Believing myself to be a great lord, I gave you battle, but by reason of the worthlessness of my artillery, all my pains were as nought…”
You may think I’m exaggerating, that no one could blather such nonsense, but it’s there in the Blue Books, and I heard it up yonder on Selassie, how his ungrateful people had taunted him by saying he’d turned Muslim, which wasn’t true, and he had intended with God’s help to conquer the whole world, and die if he couldn’t fulfil his purpose, and he’d hoped after subduing Abyssinia to lead his army against Jerusalem and expel the Turks. And if it had been dark at Arogee he’d have licked us properly. Not since the day of his birth had anyone dared lay a hand on him, and finally, a warrior who had dandled strong men like infants would never submit to be dandled by others.
So there. When he’d done dictating, he had the scribe read it over to him, which gave Prideaux the chance to tell me that Napier sent his compliments and congratulations, the Gallas had the southern approaches sealed, and he’d despatched another agent to Masteeat to see that my good work was continued.
“Sir Robert was quite bowled over at first to hear that you had fallen into Theodore’s hands, and Captain Speedy—what a remark able chap he is!—wondered if you hadn’t allowed yourself to be taken on purpose.” Prideaux was regarding me with that look of wary respect that my heroic reputation invariably excites in the young. “Sir Robert said why ever should you do any such thing, and Captain Speedy said it might be all for the best, because if it came to a point, you would know what to do. Sir Robert asked what did he mean, but Captain Speedy made no reply.” Prideaux coughed and fixed me with an earnest eye. “I tell you this, Sir Harry, because after a moment’s reflection Sir Robert told me to give you his order that whatever befell, you were to remain with the Emperor Theodore and use your best judgment.” He coughed again. “I’m not sure what he meant, sir, precisely, but I’m sure you do.”
I knew all right, as the Gates of Fate clanged to behind me. Whatever befell, I was to use my best judgment to ensure that the Emperor of Abyssinia didn’t leave Magdala alive.
Sound political biznai, of course. Theodore could not be allowed to go free and unpunished, the country wouldn’t stand for it. On t’sother hand, he’d be a most embarrassing prisoner to call to account. Much better for all concerned if he simply left the scene, and who better to shove him off the tail of the cart than good old Flashy, favourite ruffian of the Foreign Office, Palmerston-recommended, practically by Appointment Assassin Extraordinary to Her Majesty, demises discreetly arranged, mod erate terms… if I were a sensitive man (and not a little flattered to be regarded as the most fatal nemesis since Jack Ketch) I might easily be offended. ’Twasn’t the first time; I’d been sicked on to murder poor old John Brown in ’59, as you know, but shirked, so the Yankees had to do it themselves, to the disgust of the world, and serve ’em
right.
In the meantime, having finished listening to his own letter and nodded approval, Theodore had to endure another bout of im passioned whispering from Alamee, who was terrified that the letter would bring down Napier’s wrath on everyone’s head. Prideaux explained to me that our people, Speedy especially, had left Alamee in no doubt of what would happen if the war went on, and scared him to death by having Perm show him our guns and rockets; Speedy had also hinted that if Alamee and the other chiefs didn’t restrain Theodore, it would be the worse for them. But whatever warnings Alamee was pouring into the royal ear seemed to be having no effect; he was told to hold his tongue, Prideaux and Flad were sped on their way with the letter, and when Prideaux asked for a drink of water before setting off he was told peremptorily that there wasn’t time.
I couldn’t guess what Napier would make of the lunatic message, but one thing was sure: he daren’t take action that might risk the prisoners. There was no knowing what Theodore was liable to do. At the moment of despatching the letter he was ready for a fight, and so were his followers, but within an hour he seemed to be thinking better of it. He called a council of his chiefs, insisting that I and his German artisans attend, and even placed me on a stool beside his seat of state. Then, with his chiefs ranged in a semi circle before him—a dozen black villains with their spears and swords across their knees, looking daggers at me and the square heads—he began to shout abuse at them, much in the style of his letter to Napier: they had betrayed him when his back was turned, they were sheep when he wasn’t on hand to inspire them, they were a heathen generation whom he had nourished and sheltered in a heathen land, but now he was here to lead and inspire, and out of the evil that he had done, good would surely come. So let them speak: what was to be done?
They were in no doubt. I can see them now, the dark faces with their teeth bared, the clenched fists thumping their knees as one after another voted to kill the prisoners and fight to the death; Ras Engedda, the chief minister, even hinted that Theodore had been too soft altogether; the prisoners should be herded into a hut and burned alive if Napier attacked. This was received with acclamation by all but two, Alamee and another, and I feared the worst until I noticed that Theodore was looking sourer with each suc cessive vote for the war party, and all of a sudden he exploded.
“Are you blind that you cannot see the English want only their prisoners? Let them go and we shall have peace, but if they are hurt not one of us will be left alive! You urge me to war and reproach me for weakness, so kill me if you will, but do not revile me!” He was fairly foaming, driving his spear into the carpet again, and they piled out in haste, all but Ras Engedda and Alamee and another whom he sent post-haste to bring the prisoners down from Magdala. Then he calmed down, and gave me the sanest, happiest smile.
“Be of good cheer, my best of friends!” says he, and to the Germans: “And you also, good friends and servants who have worked so well for me. Soon you will be with your rescuers.”
Which cheered them up no end, and they went out blessing him and tugging their forelocks—and they were no sooner through the fly than he snatched a pistol from his belt, shoved it between his teeth, and squeezed the trigger—and it misfired. But he was a trier, the same Theodore; before I’d time to think “That’s your sort, old man!” he’d thumbed back the second hammer, and if Engedda hadn’t made a flying dive, the interfering ass, and knocked the piece from his hand, the pavilion canopy would have needed laundering, for this barrel went off splendidly and blew a hole in the tent-pole. After which Theodore groaned, sighed, threw his shama over his face, lay down, and went to sleep.
I, out of sheer curiosity, picked up the pistol and took the cap from the barrel that had misfired. It looked sound, so I tapped it smartly with the pistol butt, and it cracked with a puff of smoke. Why it had missed fire, heaven knows; perhaps there’s a fate that looks after mad monarchs.
Dr Blanc told me later that when they received the summons to go down to Theodore, they were sure they were going to die. The Abs guarding them were full of woe and weeping, bidding them farewell, and when they came down the track from the Kobet Bar Gate of Magdala and across the Islamgee plain towards the Fala saddle, sure enough there was a firing party waiting for them, and your correspondent having the conniptions as I watched the ragged little party plodding towards us. For when a messenger had come to tell Theodore they were on their way, he had suddenly roused himself, bidden me sharply to accompany him, and strode out on to the Islamgee plain, calling for a file of musketeers.
He stopped on the edge of the precipice, a bare couple of furlongs from the spot where he’d massacred the prisoners (whose corpses, you’ll be charmed to know, were still lying in heaps on the rocks below, in our full view) and ordered the musketeers to fall in against the cliff which rose sheer behind us. The road on which we stood was no more than a narrow ledge between the cliff and the drop. Theodore beckoned me to his side, and when the pris oners hove in view round a bend in the road he sent his lad Gabr to tell Rassam to approach alone. At this Engedda, who had stalked after us with a face of thunder, demanded to know what was to do.
“Will you let them go?” bawls he. “Will you fawn on this crea ture—and you, a king, and he a white cur?” Talk about bearding the lion, but Theodore only waved him away and went to meet Rassam, shaking hands, inquiring warmly after his health, sitting him down on a rock and asking if he wanted to go down to Napier now, or wait till next day, since it would soon be dusk. Rassam said, whatever suited his majesty, and Theodore began to cry, and burst out: “Go now, then, and the peace of God go with you! You and I have always been friends, and I beg you to bear in mind that if ever you cease to befriend me, I shall kill myself!”
If I’d been Rassam, I’d have gone while the going was good, for with Theodore it never stayed good for long, but he was a sparky little ha’porth, glancing back at the others waiting, and then looking a question at Theodore, who cried: “Or I may become a monk!” Rassam asked, what about the others, and Theodore shouted: “You had better go! Yes, go now!” He gestured angrily as Rassam hesi tated before turning away. “Go, I say! Begone, in the name of God!”
But Rassam didn’t go more than a yard before he stopped, and Theodore snatched a piece from the nearest musketeer and cocked it, Engedda gave a cry of triumph, and I thought, oh, Jesus, this is where it ends, for even if he spares Rassam who’s his favourite he means to do for the rest of us including me… for he’d turned away from Rassam to face the remaining prisoners, and he was mouthing and weeping and presenting his musket as they began to walk towards us.
There weren’t above a dozen of them, and who most of ’em were I can’t tell you, for I never inquired, but the one in front saved all their lives, and no doubt mine. He was Henry Blanc, the Bombay medico, bluff, burly, and a bearcat for nerve, for he was sure his time was up, but here he came at a steady stride, head high and beard a-bristle, and “Good day, your majesty!” says he, while Theodore glared tearfully with his finger twitching on the trigger, and that brisk greeting, so unexpected, had him all adrift, and he gave back a pace, lowering his piece, and absolutely asked Blanc how he did, and bade him farewell as he passed by to join Rassam. And I know, for I’ve seen things on the knife-edge all too often, that if Blanc had shown fear, or even hesitated, the Abyssinian expedition would have ended in bloody failure with the prisoners butchered by that madman and his musketeers. Well, he didn’t funk nor hesitate, and since it’s thanks to him that I’m here to write this memoir, well, here’s to Henry Blanc, M.D., staff assistant surgeon to H.M. Bombay Army. Saluel [50]
After that it was plain sailing, for Theodore’s wild fit passed, he put aside his musket, and cried farewell blessings on the others as they edged past him on the narrow road, all smiles in their relief except Cameron, limping on his stick, for when Theodore said he hoped they were parting friends, Cameron bade him adieu with a curt nod and went by.
And that was how the famous prisoners of Magdala walked down the Fal
a track to freedom—not all of ’em, by any means, for there were about forty more still up on the amba, women and kids and hangers-on, but Cameron’s little crowd were the principals, the ones the fuss had been all about. [51] When the last of them had gone by, Theodore stood staring after them as if they’d been his departing family, and blow me if he didn’t start to blubber again, and sank down on a rock with his head in his hands. It was too much for Engedda.
“Are you a woman, that you cry?” shouts he. “Let us bring them back, those white men, kill them, and run away! Or let us fight and die!”
Theodore was on his feet in a second, blazing. “Fool! Dog! Donkey! Have I not killed enough these past two days? D’you want me to kill these, too, and cover Habesh in blood?”
I’d never seen a man stand toe to toe with Theodore, and if he’d pistolled Engedda on the spot I’d not have been surprised, but he just stared him out of countenance, and Engedda growled in disgust and turned on his heel. Theodore passed a hand over his eyes and gestured after the departing prisoners. “Do you not wish to go with your friends, Ras Flashman? It is done now. You are free to go.”
Ironic, you’ll agree. A few hours earlier, I’d have been up and away with a roundelay… but since then Prideaux had brought Napier’s orders, and they were not to be disobeyed, not if I was to keep my credit. Well, it was no great matter now; Theodore was crying uncle, the Queen’s man was back in the Queen’s keeping, and all that remained was the occupation of Magdala by her forces—and the disposal of its ruler, whatever that might entail. I was bound to stay, so I came to attention, regimental as you please.
“Thank’ee, your majesty, but with your permission I’ll stay awhile. Perhaps I can be of service to your majesty.”
He frowned, bewildered, and then the tears were welling in his eyes again, coursing down the black cheeks as he clasped my hand and regarded me with owlish emotion.
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