Flashman on the March

“No doubt her majesty will tell you,” says he coolly. “And you would be wise not to insult her with talk of leaping over waterfalls. She is a kind and loving ruler, but she has a short way with liars… Are you fit to travel?”

I was, more or less, so after I’d thanked the peasants and dashed them a few of the dollars which, with my Joslyn, had been bestowed in my sash and so survived the fall, we set off through the jungly forest which encloses the Abai beneath the Tisisat. From an emi nence about a mile south I was able to get a full view of that extraordinary wonder of the natural world, all six hundred yards of it from the broken cataracts at its western end to the splendid horseshoe on the east. Aye, the devil certainly looks after his own, thinks I, while my Galla escorts sneered and nudged each other and mut tered “Walker!” in Amharic.

They were a formidable crew, the very sort of men I’d have expected from my acquaintance with the female of the species, Uliba-Wark: big, likely youngsters, not one under six feet, active as cats, muscled like wrestlers, and African only in colour. Speedy had said that of all the countless Galla tribes, the Wollos were the pick, and I could believe him and thank God they were Theodore’s sworn enemies, for if they’d opposed us I doubt if one of Napier’s army would ever have got back to the coast. They’re warriors from their cradles, expert fighters, splendid horsemen, and would rather cut throats than eat dinner. Fortunately for their neighbours, the fifty or sixty families of the nation are never done feuding among themselves, for if ever they united they could sweep north Africa from the Red Sea to the Sahara. They must be the most independent folk on earth; those of their tribes who are republican acknowledge no law and pay taxes to no one, and even the Wollos, who recog nised Masteeat as their queen, served in her army as volunteers without obligation.

There were a dozen in my escort, all well mounted and dressed accordingly with trowsers not unlike Pathan pyjamys under their robes, but barefoot and without head-dresses. They were armed with sickle-swords and those disgusting ballock-festooned lances, but no muskets or pistols. Their subaltern, whose name was Wedaju, explained that while Abs generally were familiar with firearms brought in centuries ago by the Portuguese, the Gallas, being crusty traditionalists who enjoyed slaughter at close quarters, were only now beginning to adopt them. Our conversation arose from the envious interest he showed in my Joslyn, asking if he might examine it; the fact that he didn’t simply take it suggested that he regarded me as a guest rather than a prisoner, which set me wondering again how he’d known who I was. But I didn’t ask: I’d find out eventually, and it was enough for the moment that I was being civilly treated.

My first concern was plainly Queen Masteeat, and how to present Napier’s proposal. One complication at least had been removed: whether Uliba-Wark was still in flight from Theodore’s cavalry or had been collared by them, she was no longer in a position to embarrass my mission by trying to usurp her sister’s throne, thank God. Fine woman in her way, good jancada and capital primitive ride, but she could have been an almighty nuisance, and I was well shot of her. I’d make my pitch to Masteeat in my own way, deploying the Flashy charm and the promise of fifty thou’ in Maria Theresas, and see how her majesty played the bowling. And if and when the Wollo Gallas marched forth to besiege Magdala, I’d con trive to keep my safe strategic distance from the action.

Our way lay through forest which thinned out after a few miles into pleasant wooded plain, with low hills on our flank, each with a sentry on its summit. Presently we came on pickets camped out in the groves, passing us through most professional, watchword and all, every man on his feet and jumping to their guard commanders’ orders. So we came into their camp proper, a great spread of tents and huts not unlike a Red Indian village, but clean and orderly, and although there were women and children by the hundred, there was no confusion or stink. Everywhere there were Galla warriors, mounted and infantry, plainly at ease but not loafing or lolling; this was a disciplined host, thousands strong and in no way encumbered by their families. No one would ever take this crew by surprise, and I knew just by their look that they’d be able to break camp and be off at an hour’s notice. My opinion of Queen Masteeat and her followers was rising swiftly; the most formidable African queen since Cleopatra, Speedy had said, and if her travelling cantonment were anything to judge by, he was right. [38]

Our arrival caused a stir, scores of white-robed armed men closing in on us and a couple of seniors in red- fringed shamas calling out to Wedaju in a language I didn’t understand. He’d spoken Arabic to me, none too fluently, but what I was hearing now was the Gallas’ own tongue, which isn’t Amharic or anything like it. Fortunately the Galla aristocracy speak Arabic well; one of the seniors, having cross-examined Wedaju, called out to me:

“Where are your horses, trader?”

I said I was here to buy not to sell, and he cocked his grizzled head and grinned, with his hand on his hilt.

“And you carry purchase money with you through Habesh in time of war? Truly, you are bold travellers who come from Hindustan!”

Those who understood shouted with laughter, watching to see what I made of this jest with just a hint of threat behind it. Wedaju was about to intervene, but I got in first.

“I carry money enough. I carry this also—” And I conjured the Joslyn out of my sash, spun it on my finger, did the border shift, presented it to the senior butt first, and as he reached for it wide-eyed I spun it again to cover him. The watching crowd gave a huge yell of surprise, and then fairly roared. My senior clapped his hands with delight, and in a moment I was surrounded by grinning black faces—if there’s one thing the Wollo Gallas like, it’s ready wit and impudence, and that silly little incident won me an admiring public before I’d been in their camp five minutes. Style, you see… and I tipped my metaphorical hat in memory of dear old Lou Maxwell who’d taught me how to spin a gun in Las Vegas all those years ago. [39]

In the centre of the camp, within a stockade, was a group of permanent buildings: typical Ab dwellings of various sizes, dominated by a great two-storey structure with a conical thatched roof and upper and lower verandahs, which I guessed was the royal resi dence. Wedaju conducted me to one of the lesser buildings where a dignified old file in red-bordered shama and turban, sporting a fine white beard and bearing a red-shafted spear of office, ran a cold eye over me; they conversed in Galla, and at last the chamberlain, as I took him to be, made a stately departure, and Wedaju held out his hand and demanded my Joslyn.

“You are to go into the Queen’s presence,” says he. “Have no fear, I shall keep it for you, and doubtless it will be returned when her majesty has spoken with you.” He paused, weighing the piece in his hand. “That feint you used out yonder—would you show it to me? Some day I shall have such a weapon as this, and it would be good to know…”

I showed him, and he practised, chortling, and was expert in no time. “Thank you, friend!” cries he, and I decided that one of my calculated good deeds wouldn’t hurt.

“If all speeds well with the Queen, you shall have such a pistol,” I told him, and he was still exclaiming his gratitude when the cham berlain returned with two turbaned guardsmen and led the way out, Flashy being ushered in his wake. The guardsmen thrashed aside the crowd who’d been craning their necks at the doorway to see the funny foreigner, and with Wedaju at my elbow we crossed to the big two-storey building, passed in between more turbaned sen tries, and waited in a large dim hall while the chamberlain went ahead through a great bead curtain which was presently held aside by two of the loveliest handmaidens you could ever hope to see, true Galla girls with cool damn-you-me-lad expressions and figures to match. The chamberlain’s voice called out from within, Wedaju prodded me forward, and I strode into the presence of Masteeat the Looking Glass, Queen of Wollo Galla, and with luck guardian angel of Her Britannic Majesty’s army in Abyssinia.

You never know what to expect on encountering royalty. I’ve seen ’em stark naked except for wings of peacock feathers (Empress of China), giggling drunk in the embrace of a wrestler (Maharani of the Punjab), voluptuously wrapped in wet silk (Queen of Madagascar), wafting to and fro on a swing (Rani of Jhansi), and tramping along looking like an out-of-work charwoman (our own gracious monarch). But I’ve never seen the like of the court of the Queen of Galla.

Her majesty was at luncheon, which she ate surrounded by lions, four huge maned brutes grouped about the great couch where she lounged on cushions, an arm over the neck of one of the beasts while with her free hand she helped herself to dainties from trays presented by two more fair attendants. Another lion was nuzzling her shoulder from behind, and the remaining two crouched at her feet, one with its head against her knee—for all the world like four great tabbies toadying for scraps, which she fed them from time to time, dainty fingers popping tidbits into jaws I’d not have approached for a pension.

And if that were not enough to bring me to a dead stop, there was something else: seated on a low stool a little way from the couch, regarding me with venomous dislike, was Uliba-Wark.