Flashman on the March

civilian worthies stood silent and thoughtful, determined not to look at each other, like a convocation of clergy when the bishop has farted extempore. They knew the unwisdom of noticing, having seen his royal tantrums before.

“Come!” snaps Miriam, and led me quickly in behind one of the nearest tents, where she dismounted and removed the noose. “Sit on the ground, say nothing. All may yet be well. I must see Damash.” And off she went, leaving me in some disquiet, sitting obediently and trembling like an aspen, an object of studied lack of interest to the aforementioned worthies; they acted as though I weren’t there, which suited admirably: I’d no wish to be noticed, especially by the frothing maniac in the red pavilion. I’d seen his quicksilver change of mood during the night, from mild to angry, and the sight of those wretched prisoners, and Miriam’s explana tion, had convinced me that he was fairly off his rocker… but none of that had prepared me for the homicidal rage of a moment ago. That settled it. He was a murderous maniac—and I was his detested prisoner.

I’ll not weary you with my emotions as I sat there in the sun, or my terrors when presently a squad of burly ruffians in leather tunics arrived, bearing manacles, and marched me away from the tents to a little stockade within which stood a small thatched hut with a heavy door. They thrust me in, ignoring my inquiries for Miriam and Damash (I didn’t ask for Theodore), chained me, and left me in stuffy half-darkness to meditate on the mutability of human affairs, with a couple of spearmen outside.

Some things were plain enough—Masteeat and Fasil had lost no time, the Galla cordon that Napier had wanted was in place, and Theodore knew it; since he’d been on top of Selassie with a tele scope he would also know that Napier was within striking distance, and that the game was up with a vengeance—hence, no doubt, his irritable conduct to your correspondent. And whether he chose to fight, fly, or laager on top of Magdala, the pressing question was what he would do with his European prisoners—cut our throats out of spite and die with harness on his back, or hand us over in reasonably good condition like a sensible chap… which he wasn’t.

There was no way of even guessing. On the one hand, here I was in chains, which boded no good, but didn’t suggest hasty execution, and Miriam had said all might yet be well. And since Theodore had kept our folk captive, often in chains, for years without killing any of ’em bar a couple of Ab servants, it looked odds on that he’d spare our lives… but then again, the man was barmy, and there was no telling what he might do now that his back was well and truly to the wall.

To keep my mind from glum speculation, I tried to remember how many times I’d been in chains before. Four or five, perhaps? Proper chains, that is, not the darbies used by the A Division peelers to restrain obstreperous revellers, but your genuine bilboes. There’d been Russia, when Ignatieff had caged me half across Central Asia, and the Gwalior bottle dungeon, and China when the Imps collared me before Pekin, and Afghanistan when that frightful bitch Narreeman was going to qualify me for the Hareem Handicap… at which point it struck me that my present situation, while most disturbing, was grace itself compared to these unhappy memories. I could only hope that I’d not be called on to walk in my new fetters, for they were easily the heaviest I’d ever worn, wrist manacles like double horse shoes, ankle irons two inches thick, and all connected by chain that could have lifted an anchor. And Cameron and Co. had had to wear these for months! Well, I’d not have to carry ’em for more than a day or two, one way or the other… and on this consoling thought I fell asleep—something I hadn’t done, bar my brief drunken stupor following Masteeat’s feast, for more than forty-eight hours.

A dazzling light and commotion at the doorway brought me back to life, trying to start up and failing thanks to the weight of those infernal clanking manacles. The door was open, someone was hanging a lamp from the roof beam and retiring, and as the door crashed shut again I was aware of a swaying figure in the middle of the room, a man whose shama had slipped from his shoulders so that he was bare to the waist. He gave a mighty belch and advanced unsteadily towards me, half-tripping over a large basket of bottles and food which the lamplighter had placed on the floor.

“How are you, how are you, my dear friend, my best of friends?” cries this apparition, whooping with laughter. “Thank God I am well! Are you well? Ah, my good friend, my heart rejoices to see you, for the friendship I have entertained for you has not dimin ished. Be of good cheer, for though you are bound with fetters, as Samson and Zedekiah were bound, even with fetters of brass, yet… yet…” His voice trailed away, muttering: “… and… and, who else? Yes, Jehoiakim also was bound, and Manasseh! They were bound, by the power of God! And so was Joseph, who was sold for a servant, whose feet they hurt with fetters, and he was laid in iron.” He gave another crazy laugh and almost fell over. “But have no fear, for the hour of your deliverance is at hand!”

My eyes had recovered from the lamp-glare, but I could hardly believe them, for the newcomer was Theodore, King of Abyssinia, and he was staggering drunk.

Just as Peacock’s Mr McQuedy, discussing condiments for fish, could imagine no relish superior to lobster sauce and oyster sauce, so I, on the subject of bizarre conversation, had never thought to meet a crazier discourser than Hung-Hsiu-Chuan, leader of the Taiping Rebellion, who was hopelessly mad, or Mangas Colorado, chief of the Mimbreno Apache, who was hopelessly drunk. I discovered in that hut under Selassie that I’d been quite wrong; King Theodore was both hopelessly mad and drunk, and could have given either of them a head start and a beating in the race to Alice’s tea party. If you’ve the patience, and know my earlier papers, you may make comparison with the following record of our chat, from the moment he plumped down, hiccoughing and beaming, in front of me, and spilled out the contents of the basket of food and drink.

I’d had no opportunity to study him at close quarters before, for our first meeting had been by flickering firelight, and at our second his face had been so contorted with rage as to be nigh unrecog nisable. Now, with his black skin (for he was blacker than most Abs) shining with sweat, his eyes staring and bloodshot, and his mouth grinning slackly, he wasn’t your portrait painter’s ideal model; still I could weigh him well enough, and what I saw through the haze of booze and confusion was not an ordinary man.

He had force, no other word for it, a pent-up strength that was as much in the mind as in the body—and the body was impres sive enough. He wasn’t above middle height, but he had the shoul ders and arms of a middleweight wrestler, a chest like a barrel tapering to a slim waist; there wasn’t the least lip of flesh above his waistband. Groggy with drink as he was, I guessed he could move like a striking snake if need be; when he poured out cups of tej his hands were deft and steady.

But the real power was in the eyes, bright and piercing despite the blood-streaks and the occasional drunken tears; there was no tipsy vacancy about them—and that in a way was the shocking thing, ’cos by rights he should have been goggling like the last man out of the canteen. Drunk, yes, but it didn’t suit him; you felt he’d no business to be bottled. It was like seeing the Prince Consort or Gladstone taking the width of the pavement singing “One-eyed Riley'. And he was a sight handsomer than either of ’em; forget his tendency to slobber and stare and he was a deuced good-looking fellow, fifty or thereabouts with a pepper-and-salt dusting to grizzle his hair, which was braided in tails down the back of his head; his nose was hooked and prominent and his lips were thin when his mouth was shut, which it wasn’t at the moment. But his normal expression, when sober, was pleasant and alert. When he went mad, which he was liable to do at any moment, he looked like a fiend out of Hell.

So that’s the Emperor Theodore, as best I can limn him for you. One last thing before I get to his chat: I’ve never seen a black face that looked less African: slim, fine-boned, like a dusky Duke of Wellington. Oh, and he had a curious habit, just occasionally, of spitting thoughtfully when he spoke; just a sideways ptt! of the lips, disconcerting until you got used to it.

Theodore [Jovial, passing a cup o/tej]: We shall drink the vintage of the grapes of Ephraim! Ah, my friend, I have been impatient to see you, and to bring you comfort in the prison-house. Even as the Lord looked down from the height of his sanctuary, so I too heard the groaning of the captive. A toast! Name it, my friend!

Flashy [taken aback]: Eh? A toast? Me? Ah, well, let’s see… Here’s how, your majesty!

T: Let me shake your hand. Ah, your chains; do they fret you painfully?

F [toadying warily]: Oh, just a bit… no trouble, really—

T: Do you know why you are chained?

F [cautiously]: Well, I imagine it’s because your majesty misunderstood about my… my dealings with the Gallas—perfectly natural mistake, of course, could have happened to anyone—

T: What are the Gallas to me? You are the one who has misun derstood, my friend, if you think you are chained as a punishment. I chained you as I chained your countrymen, because the British Government thought me cowardly and weak. But now I have released my good friend Mr Rassam, and Lieutenant Prideaux, and I shall release you also, to show I am not afraid. [Earnestly] I had to chain you, in order to