Flashman on the March

Dedjazmach.) Napier seeks an alliance against Theodore, but she knew nothing of any price. Now, I am sure that he will have named a sum; and equally sure that he will have urged you to make as cheap a bargain as the silly woman will accept.” She took a long swig, mocking me with an eye like a velvet fish- hook. “But I am surest of all that you are too gallant a gentleman to take advantage of a poor African lady.”

What could I do but smile in turn, and resolve then and there to pay her the whole kitboodle, as she was sure I would, the crafty trollop. She knew my style, and I knew hers, and ’twasn’t my money anyway.

“Since your majesty is graciously pleased to signify your assent to Sir Robert’s proposal,” says I, all ambassador-like, “I am empow ered to promise fifty thousand dollars in Austrian silver of 1780 minting…” It was a pleasure to see the light of pure greed mantle that jolly face “… provided that your majesty’s forces invest Magdala and prevent the Emperor’s escape.” I bowed, sitting down. “I have the honour to await your majesty’s reply.”

“And when will the money be paid?”

“When Sir Robert has the honour of paying his respects to your majesty in person.”

She gave me her old-fashioned look. “Which means when Theodore is dead or captured, but not before.”

“That, ma’am,” says I, “is exactly what it means. But you need have no fear. Sir Robert’s a man of his word. And so am I.”

“Oh, I am very sure of that. Very well; it is promised, it is done.” She extended an imperious hand, and again I hastened to help her rise, but this time I drew her plumpness smoothly to me, and was about to clamp her buttocks and make a meal of her, but she held her face away, looking mischievous. “And until the silver is in my treasury, I hold a hostage, do I not?” She flirted her lips across mine. “Now, you must take counsel with my commanders.”

Any doubts I might have had about the military bandobast of the Wollo Gallas were banished entirely in the next few hours when I conferred with their commanders. They were as expert and brisk in planning as their queen had been in negoti ation, grasped Napier’s requirements at once, and knew exactly how to satisfy them. By the time we were done I was confident that whatever the hazards of taking Magdala, the Gallas would do their part to the letter.

There were four of them in the great airy apartment where Fasil, their general in chief, had his head- quarters. He was a mercenary, of the Amoro Galla tribe, notorious for their bravery, ferocity, and hatred of Christians, and didn’t he look it? He was a tall grizzled veteran whose hawk profile was marred by a dreadful sword-cut which had cleft both cheeks and the bridge of his nose; his style was all Guardee, sharp with authority and sparing with words. His two immediate sub ordinates were surprisingly young, hard-case stalwarts commanding infantry and cavalry respectively, full of bounce and confidence of which Fasil was sourly tolerant—not a bad sign. I don’t remember their names. Fourth man in was Masteeat’s son, Ahmed, a lively, hand some stripling who had inherited his mother’s lazy smile without her indolence, for he was restless with energy. He seemed to be Fasil’s a.d.c. In attendance there were half a dozen scribes taking notes.

What impressed me at first sight even more than the men was the great scale model, six feet by three, which occupied the centre of the room. It was an exact representation of Magdala and the country round, and beat any sand-table I’d ever seen. I doubt if any military academy of Europe or America could have shown better—and these were the primitive aborigines whom Punch depicted as nigger minstrels.

I made a sketch of it, and if you study it along with my descrip tion you’ll understand why I examined it with mounting alarm, for it was clear to me that if Theodore defended his amba like the pro fessional soldier he was reputed to be, Napier’s command was looking disaster in the face.

Until now, you see, all I knew of Magdala was what the croakers said: that it was impregnable if resolutely defended—but that’s been an old soldier’s tale since Joshua’s day, and I’d been ready to believe that the shave (* Rumour.) was exaggerated. I wasn’t prepared for that sand-table, if it was accurate. Fasil swore it was, to the inch, having been made by their best engineers and artists months earlier, when Masteeat had contemplated an attack on the place.

“And would have taken it, garrisoned by sheep as it is!” cries young Ahmed. “But Menelek and Gobayzy came snapping at our ankles like the dogs they are!”

“I could take it now, prince, if her majesty wishes,” brags the infantry wallah, with a cocky grin at me. “Why leave it for the British, who may not restore it to her majesty afterwards?”

“Since when are you a politician?” growls Fasil. “Keep to your trade and let your queen mind hers.”

“Oh, give him his way, lord general!” cries the cavalry chap. “Let’s see him pit his skill against Theodore’s!” He turned to me. “Given leave, my horsemen would have cut the Emperor’s rabble to pieces before they’d crossed the Bechelo!”

“Silence, fools!” growls Fasil. “Who are you to dare to reproach her majesty?” The lads protested that they’d meant no such thing, while I sought confirmation of the bad news.

“Theodore is in Magdala already?”

“He reached the amba three days ago, and camps his army on Islamgee, under the Magdala cliff,” says Fasil. “But his guns are not yet emplaced. When they and his great mortar have been sited, our scouts will bring us instant word, which we shall pass to your Dedjaz Napier; thus he will know which height Theodore will defend.” He leaned forward and tapped three features in the model with his pointer. “Fala… Selassie… Magdala…”

Look at my map and you’ll see them: three flat-topped peaks like the legs of an upturned stool, surrounded by mountains, a wilderness of rock and ravine worthy of Afghanistan. A saddle of land almost two miles long connects Fala and Selassie, and beyond lay the plain of Islamgee and Theodore’s army. I walked round the table, weighing it all, and saw that there was only one way for Napier to advance after he’d crossed the Bechelo. I ain’t being clever; any fool could ha’ seen it.

The road that Theodore had made to transport his artillery wound in a great loop from the Bechelo river through the Arogee plateau, and on to Magdala itself. But that wouldn’t do for Napier; it was too perilously close to the broken country bordering the Warki river, where the Abs would have all the advantage of ambush and sur prise; the mere sight on the model of the beetling rocky sides of the Warki valley gave me the horrors; let ’em draw you in there and you’d never come out.

The only safe way was to take a long slant to the right and come to Arogee by the spurs running up through Afichu plateau; it might mean some stiff climbing for our troops, but they’d be in fairly open ground all the way, which would suit our infantry and gunners if Theodore were daft enough to offer pitched battle.

The key to the whole puzzle was plainly Fala. If Theodore put guns there he’d be able to bombard our advance over Arogee, but our gunners could give him shot for shot, and once Fala was taken the way to the Islamgee plain and Magdala would be open. And then… it would be a question of “so far so good” and put up a prayer.

You may remember pictures of Theodore’s great amba; the illus trated papers were full of them in ’68. It’s what they call a vol canic plug, a sheer cylinder of rock over three hundred feet high, with only one precipitous way up guarded by gates and ramparts. If Theodore was ready to fight to a finish and his gunners stood to it, Napier might never take that ghastly height. And his army, cut off and out of supply, would die at the end of nowhere.

Well, that wasn’t my indaba. My task was to see that the Gallas did their stuff, and I’m bound to say they seemed eager enough. Fifty thou’ and undisputed sovereignty over the Galla confederacy might be the prize to Masteeat, but unless I misread the looks of her commanders they asked nothing better than a chance to adorn their spear-points with Theodore’s courting tackle.

“Where’s Dedjaz Napier, d’you know?” I asked.

“Three days ago he was over the Takazy, at Santara, a week’s march from Magdala,” says Fasil. “By now he will be close to Bethor, perhaps at the Jedda ravine. God providing, they should be across the Bechelo in… three days? Perhaps four.”

“Oh, three, surely!” cries young Ahmed. “If he knows we are with him, he must come like the wind!”

“Even the wind must rest, prince,” says Cavalry. “They have come far and fast.”

“And they lay three days at Santara so that the main force might close up with the advance guard,” says Infantry.

“But they are none but fighting men now!” protests Ahmed. “They have left their slaves behind, and will march at speed with only their guns to carry!” To a Galla, all camp-followers were slaves, apparently. He appealed