know … African! At least foreign. I’m sorry-please go on!”
“He was born of very humble family,” he resumed. “His first calling was as a scribe, but he earned very little at it, so he took to banditry instead, at which he did so well that by the time he was thirty-seven he was crowned Emperor of Abyssinia, King of Kings, and Chosen of God.”
“I have obviously underrated banditry!” She giggled. “Not only its social acceptability but its religious significance.”
He was smiling broadly now. “Unfortunately, he was quite mad. He wrote a letter to the Queen-”
“Our Queen, or his own queen?” she interrupted.
“Our Queen! Victoria. He wished to send a delegation to England to see her, in order to let her know that his Muslim neighbors were oppressing him and other good Christians in Abyssinia. He asked her to form an alliance with him to deal with them.”
“And she wouldn’t?” she asked. They were now in front of a magnificent stone carved with hieroglyphics.
“We will never know,” he answered. “Because the letter reached London in 1863 but someone in the Foreign Office mislaid it. Or else they could not think what to say in reply. So Theodore became very angry indeed, and imprisoned the British consul in Abyssinia, one Captain Charles Cameron. They stretched him on a rack and flogged him with a hippopotamus hide whip.”
She stared at him, uncertain if he was absolutely serious. She saw from his eyes that he was.
“So what happened then? Did they send the army to rescue him?”
“No … the Foreign Office looked very hastily for the letter, and found it,” he answered. “They wrote a reply requesting Cameron’s release and gave it to a Turkish Assyriologist named Rassam and asked him to deliver it. The letter was written in May of 1864, but it did not reach the Emperor in Abyssinia until January nearly two years later, when Theodore welcomed Rassam warmly … and then threw the poor man into prison with Cameron.”
“Then we sent in the army?” she said.
“No. Theodore wrote to the Queen again, this time asking for workmen, machinery and a munitions manufacturer.” The corners of his lips twitched with wry humor.
“And we sent the army?” she concluded.
He glanced sideways at her. “No, we sent a civil engineer and six workmen.”
In spite of herself, her voice rose. “I don’t believe it!”
He nodded. “They got as far as Massawa, waited there for half a year, and were finally sent home again.” Then his expression became serious again. “But in July of that year, 1867, the Secretary of State for India telegraphed the Governor of Bombay asking how long it would take to mount an expedition, and in August the cabinet decided on war. In September they sent Theodore an ultimatum. And we set sail. I came from India and joined General Napier’s forces: Bengal Cavalry, Madras sappers and miners, Bombay native infantry and a regiment of Sind horse. We were joined by a British regiment, the 33rd Foot, although actually half of them were Irish and there were almost a hundred Germans, and when we landed near Zula, there were Turks and Arabs and all kinds of Africans. I remember a young war correspondent named Henry Stanley writing about it. He loved Africa, fascinated by it.” He stopped. He was looking at the exhibit in front of them now, an alabaster carving of a cat. It was exquisite, but there was no pleasure in Balantyne’s face, only embarrassment and pain.
“You fought in Abyssinia?” she asked quietly.
“Yes.”
“Was it very bad?”
He moved slightly, with just a flinch of the body, a gesture of denial. “No worse than any fighting. There is always fear, mutilation, death. You care about people and see them reduced to the least-and rise to the most-a man can be: terror and courage, selfishness in some, nobility in others, hunger, thirst, pain … fearful pain.” He kept his face away from her, as if to meet her eyes would make him incapable of saying what he felt. “It strips away all pretense … from others and from yourself.”
She was not sure whether to interrupt or not. She tightened her fingers on his arm a little. He stood silently.
She waited. People moved past them, some of them turning to stare for a moment. She wondered fleetingly what they thought, and did not care.
He took a deep breath and let it out silently.
“I did not wish to talk about battle. I’m sorry.”
“What did you wish to say?” she asked gently.
“I … perhaps …” He faltered again.
“I can forget it afterwards if you would rather I did,” she promised.
He smiled, a harsh curling of the lips. He remained facing forward, not looking at her. “There was one action in that campaign where we were ambushed. Thirty men were injured, my commanding officer among them. It was something of a fiasco. I was shot in the arm, but not badly.”
She waited for him to continue without prompting him.
“I have received a letter.” He said it with great difficulty, his words coming as if forced out of him, his face stiff. “It accuses me of being the cause of that rout … of-of cowardice in the face of the enemy, of being responsible for the injuries of those men. It says … that I panicked and was rescued by a private soldier, but that that fact was covered up to save the honor of the regiment, and for morale. It is not true, but I cannot prove that.” He did not tell her that such a charge, if known, would ruin him. He expected her to know.
And she did. Anyone would, especially just at the moment, with the Tranby Croft affair all over the newspapers and on everyone’s tongue. Even those who would not normally take the slightest interest in such people were now talking about them and awaiting the next development, eager for disaster.
She must answer with intelligence. Sympathy was fine, but it was of no practical use, and he needed help.
“What did they ask for?” she said quietly.
“A snuffbox,” he answered. “Just as a token of good faith.”
She was surprised. “A snuffbox? Is it valuable?”
He gave a sharp bark of laughter, raw, self-mocking. “No … a few guineas. It’s pinchbeck, but it is beautiful. Highly individual. Anyone would know it was mine. It is a token of my willingness to pay. Some would say it is a sign of guilt.” His hands clenched, and she could feel the muscles of his arm hard under her fingers. “But it’s only a mark of my panic … exactly what he accused me of.” The bitterness in his voice was close to despair. “But I never turned my back on the enemy of the body … only of the mind. Odd … I had not imagined I lacked moral courage.”
“You don’t,” she said without a moment’s hesitation. “It is a delaying tactic … until we know the strength of the enemy and a little more of his nature. Blackmail is a cowardly thing … perhaps the most cowardly.” Her anger was so burning hot, she had not even been aware of using a plural that included herself.
He moved his other hand and very gently, just for a moment, touched her fingers where they lay on his arm, then turned away and began to walk towards the next exhibit, several pieces of ancient glass in a case.
She followed after him swiftly. “You cannot become involved in this,” he said. “I told you simply because … because I needed to share it with someone, and I knew I could trust you.”
“You can trust me!” she said urgently. “But not to stand by and watch you tortured for something you did not do. Not that I would stand by even if you had. We all make mistakes, are weak or frightened or stupid sometimes, and that in itself is usually punishment enough.” She stood next to him but did not link her arm in his this time. He was not looking at her. “We are going to fight!”
Now he did face her. “How? I have no idea who he is.”
“Then we must find out,” she retorted. “Or else we must contact someone who was there and can disprove what this person is saying. Make a list of everyone who even knows about it.”
“The army,” he said with the ghost of a smile.
She was determined. “Come, now! It was a skirmish in Abyssinia … it was hardly Waterloo! And it was twenty-three years ago. They will not all even be alive.”
“Twenty-five,” he corrected with a sudden softness in his eyes. “Shall we begin over luncheon? This is not the most convenient place for writing anything.”
“Certainly,” she agreed. “Thank you.” She took his arm again. “That would be an excellent beginning.”
They ate together at a most agreeable small restaurant, and were she less preoccupied with the problem,
