Flashman on the March

out a receipt to be handed over on its arrival. I haven’t had it yet.

Napier was to meet his princely savage at a place called Mai Dehar, a short day’s ride ahead, so with the Scind ees as escort I set off after tiffin across the valley and past the collection of huts that makes up Attegrat village. There’s a church and a ruined palace, but what takes the eye is the veritable Bluebeard’s castle perched on an eminence high above the valley, a massive keep with four great turrets, at each corner. A sinister sight even in broad day, grim and forbidding behind its curtain wall.

Our way wound through the hills into a desolation where we began to see all the signs of civil war and spoiling, with villages ruined and abandoned, burned huts, fallow fields, and hardly a living creature except at a distance. The villages still inhabited were all on rising ground, stoutly walled, and on every peak there was a stark adobe tower after the style of the one at Attegrat; some were a good fifty feet high and of five or six storey, built on the lips of precipices, crouched like vultures over the valleys below. A proper simile, for my havildar explained that these were the holds of robber barons who preyed on the countryside, and between them and the slave-raiding Gallas from the south the peasantry had a deuced thin time—it reminded him, he said cheerfully, of home, that blessed frontier where honest chaps lived by pillage and extortion, with only the interfering British Sirkar to mar the idyll. I pointed out that the Sirkar also paid the wages of him and his fellow-thieves when they took a holiday from crime, and he admitted that we had our uses.

We covered about twenty miles through that waste land, and lay overnight by the well serving the nearby village of Ad Abaga; the wells, being low-lying, are necessarily outside the walls of all the hill communities. I was thankful for my escort of bearded evil faces as we sat round our fire listening to the jackals and the occasional horrid heh-heh of a hyena while we watched the moon rise to silhouette another of those nightmare cliff-castles. I remarked on its ghastly look, and the Scind ee havildar chuckled.

“The husoor has heard the story of that castle? No? Of the strange Lady of the Fortress who is seen by no one? The tale runs that she is the wife of a robber chief who is a prisoner of the King of Lasta—” he pointed to the distant mountains “—and that she has vowed that the sun shall not shine or the rain fall on her head until he is home again. Others believe she is under a spell, an enchantress bound by some great magician to dwell forever confined and solitary.”

“A regular Lady of Shalott, eh? And what do the Scind ees think?”

“Why, that she bribed the King of Lasta to kidnap her man so that she might beguile herself with lusty servitors!” cries he, and his ruffians chortled approval. I quoted Ilderim Khan’s adage: “A Gilzai and a grandmother for scandal!” and they fairly hooted.

Our way next day lay through more broken country and tumble down remains of raided villages, across a plateau so rough that it was late afternoon before we came up with Napier’s pickets on the crest that overlooks Mai Dehar, a shallow valley cut across by a stream, where John Bull first came face to face with Prester John.

A momentous meeting and a splendid spectacle, by all accounts, with our stalwart ranks of King’s Own, native cavalry and infantry, and artillery firing salutes from the near side of the stream, while the Tigre army, four thousand strong, suddenly came into view on the far crest, drums thundering as they formed a vast half-moon formation with their monarch in its midst. I say “by all accounts” because I arrived too late to see it, and if you want the colourful details you must refer again to Henty and Stanley or any of the great rabble of correspondents who were on hand. (* This meeting took place on February 25.)

They’ll tell you how Napier rode to the meeting on an elephant, but had to get off because it scared the Tigre horses, and finally arrived in the royal presence on a charger, which he presented as a gift to King Kussai, along with a rifle, receiving in return a shield, spear, lion tippet, and a white mule. They spent the day in the King’s tent confabbing, and when Kussai remarked that he didn’t care for invaders, much, but would stretch a point if they were Christians, Napier replied diplomatically that he liked all Abs except those who imprisoned our people. Ah, says Kussai, you mean Theodore, an evil son-of-a-bitch who’ll stand deposing, and I’m just the lad to replace him. Alas, says Napier, we ain’t concerned with Ab politics, just our captives, which of course means we shan’t help your competitors either. Can’t say fairer than that, concedes Kussai, carry on through my dominions, give Theodore his gruel and leave the rival claimants to me.

That was the gist of it, but Henty and Co. will also hold you spellbound with descriptions of the barbaric splendour of tlae Tigre warriors in their velvet mantles, lion-mane robes, shirts all colours of the rainbow, bearing sickle-bladed swords, shields, lances, and a few muskets, their officers in flowing silk head-dresses, Bedouin style, with silver fillets round the forehead, and braided hair and beards. They’ll comment on the noble bearing of young King Kussai in his red-fringed toga and gold gauntlets, mild in speech and manner and not the smartest despot between Cairo and the Cape, perhaps, but amiable to a degree, being in no doubt which side his bread was buttered.

The proceedings concluded with ceremonial inspections, Napier running the rule over the Tigre army, strapping fellows if primitively armed, and Kussai being treated to a display of foot drill and manoeu vres by our gallant lads; there were those who thought we’d have done better to show the Abs our Armstrong guns and rockets in action, by way of warning, for they seem to have come away from that first encounter convinced that while we’d be invincible on the plain, we’d be no match for their irregulars in the high country.

All this was over by the time we breasted the slope to the crest where the pickets were stationed, with the sun setting behind them, and here came a young subaltern of the 3rd Native Cavalry, mighty trim in his blue and silver, cantering downhill to meet us. He greeted me by name, explaining that he’d been on the q.v. all day, with instructions to bring me to Napier’s tent as soon as I was sighted—which would have been flattering if I hadn’t, as you know, been leery of generals who can’t wait to see me. With good cause, for…

“I wonder, Sir Harry, if you’d be good enough to wear this?” says he, holding out a long hooded cloak of the kind the Heavies wore in those days. “And my rissaldar will look after your Scind ees.”

I looked from the cloak to him and his rissaldar, who was throwing me a salaam and calling my escort to attention, and the tiny doubt that had been stirring at the back of my mind since Speedy had rejoiced at my being “with” the expedition grew sud denly into a dreadful foreboding as he put the cloak into my reluc tant hand.

“What the devil’s this?” I demanded.

“If you would please keep it close about you,” says he. “Sir Robert wishes your presence to be known to as few people as poss ible, especially the enem ? that is, our Abyssinian friends. There are a number of them moving about our lines, you see… oh, per fectly cordial, merely curious—”

“And why the hell shouldn’t they see me? I ain’t in purdah!”

“Sir Robert thinks it best, sir.” He was pink but firm, all of twenty but not to be over-awed even by the famous Flashy. “Indeed, he insists. So, if you wouldn’t mind, sir… the hood will conceal your features, you see.”

It was ridiculous—alarmingly so, but there was no use to protest. I threw the cloak round my shoulders, drew the hood forward, and followed over the crest and down the slope to our lines already lit by storm lanterns against the gathering dusk. Sure enough, there were tall Ab warriors, and womenfolk and children, moving among the tents, staring at our fellows and the jawans (* Indian soldiers.) who’d plainly been put on their best behaviour, for they were calling greetings to the Abs, offering them seats by their fires, glad-eyeing the Shoho girls, and letting the chicos play with their equipment. My conductor led the way to a big marquee set apart, with a couple of Dragoons with drawn sabres at the fly, and the gigantic figure of Speedy between them, handing me down and ushering me inside.

“None o’ the press gang saw him?” My escort assured him they hadn’t. This was too much, and I said so.

“Of all the dam’ nonsense! Henty’s seen me, hasn’t he? Why shouldn’t the rest of ’em?”

“Henty’s safe,” says Speedy. “The rest ain’t, least of all the con founded nosey-parker Stanley—you know him, the Chicago wallah. [24] He’d trumpet your arrival to the four winds!”

“And who’d give a mad clergyman’s fart if he did? Why shouldn’t he? Oh, the blazes with this! Where’s Bob Napier, then? Or has he gone off the deep end too?” I flung off the cloak, and was about to give my disquiet full flow when I realised that my auditors—the escort, Speedy, and a bookish-looking Sapper captain—were glancing apprehensively at the far end of the tent—and there he was, the Bughunter in person, and even in my agitation my first thought was that if ever a played-out veteran needed a long furlough, he did. He’d always looked middling tired, with his down-turned brows and pouchy eyes and drowsy moustache, but now he was old, too, regarding me with a