Flashman on the March

and on Fala across the way. “Never saw so many glowerin’ faces! Well, he’d better swallow the terms, ’cos they’re the best he’ll get—what, after the way he’s carried on, keepin’ us chained for two years, torturin’ poor old Cameron, butcherin’ his own folk right and left! The man’s a blasted Attila! And if he expects Napier to just say, ‘So long, old fellow!’ and pack his traps, he’s sadly mistaken!”

“He’s mad, remember,” I told him—and what happened next bore me out, for Theodore began to rage and stamp as Alamee pleaded with him. “Please, Father, there is no hope!” he was crying. “The choice is surrender or death! The English dedjaz swears that if a hair of the Europeans’ heads is touched, he will tarry here five years if need be to punish the murderers—his words, Father, not mine!”

“Be silent, imbecile!” bawls Theodore, and there and then sat himself down on a rock and dictated a reply to Napier at the top of his voice, while we and his chiefs and minions listened in dis belief. For you never heard such stuff, starting off with a Theodoric rant about the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost, and then a great harangue— not addressed to Napier, but to the people of Abyssinia, and how they’d fled before the enemy, and turned their backs on him, and hated him, after the way he’d fed their multitudes, the maidens protected and unprotected, the women made widows at Arogee, and aged parents without children… amazing babble, while he glared up at the heavens and his admiring court exclaimed in awe.

“He’s slipped his cable,” mutters Prideaux. “God help us!”

But now Theodore seemed to remember to whom he was writing, for he complained that Napier had prevailed by military discipline, the implication being that it wasn’t fair “and my followers who loved me were frightened by one bullet, and fled in spite of my commands. When you defeated them, I was not with the fugitives. Believing myself to be a great lord, I gave you battle, but by reason of the worthlessness of my artillery, all my pains were as nought…”

You may think I’m exaggerating, that no one could blather such nonsense, but it’s there in the Blue Books, and I heard it up yonder on Selassie, how his ungrateful people had taunted him by saying he’d turned Muslim, which wasn’t true, and he had intended with God’s help to conquer the whole world, and die if he couldn’t fulfil his purpose, and he’d hoped after subduing Abyssinia to lead his army against Jerusalem and expel the Turks. And if it had been dark at Arogee he’d have licked us properly. Not since the day of his birth had anyone dared lay a hand on him, and finally, a warrior who had dandled strong men like infants would never submit to be dandled by others.

So there. When he’d done dictating, he had the scribe read it over to him, which gave Prideaux the chance to tell me that Napier sent his compliments and congratulations, the Gallas had the southern approaches sealed, and he’d despatched another agent to Masteeat to see that my good work was continued.

“Sir Robert was quite bowled over at first to hear that you had fallen into Theodore’s hands, and Captain Speedy—what a remark able chap he is!—wondered if you hadn’t allowed yourself to be taken on purpose.” Prideaux was regarding me with that look of wary respect that my heroic reputation invariably excites in the young. “Sir Robert said why ever should you do any such thing, and Captain Speedy said it might be all for the best, because if it came to a point, you would know what to do. Sir Robert asked what did he mean, but Captain Speedy made no reply.” Prideaux coughed and fixed me with an earnest eye. “I tell you this, Sir Harry, because after a moment’s reflection Sir Robert told me to give you his order that whatever befell, you were to remain with the Emperor Theodore and use your best judgment.” He coughed again. “I’m not sure what he meant, sir, precisely, but I’m sure you do.”

I knew all right, as the Gates of Fate clanged to behind me. Whatever befell, I was to use my best judgment to ensure that the Emperor of Abyssinia didn’t leave Magdala alive.

Sound political biznai, of course. Theodore could not be allowed to go free and unpunished, the country wouldn’t stand for it. On t’sother hand, he’d be a most embarrassing prisoner to call to account. Much better for all concerned if he simply left the scene, and who better to shove him off the tail of the cart than good old Flashy, favourite ruffian of the Foreign Office, Palmerston-recommended, practically by Appointment Assassin Extraordinary to Her Majesty, demises discreetly arranged, mod erate terms… if I were a sensitive man (and not a little flattered to be regarded as the most fatal nemesis since Jack Ketch) I might easily be offended. ’Twasn’t the first time; I’d been sicked on to murder poor old John Brown in ’59, as you know, but shirked, so the Yankees had to do it themselves, to the disgust of the world, and serve ’em right.

In the meantime, having finished listening to his own letter and nodded approval, Theodore had to endure another bout of im passioned whispering from Alamee, who was terrified that the letter would bring down Napier’s wrath on everyone’s head. Prideaux explained to me that our people, Speedy especially, had left Alamee in no doubt of what would happen if the war went on, and scared him to death by having Perm show him our guns and rockets; Speedy had also hinted that if Alamee and the other chiefs didn’t restrain Theodore, it would be the worse for them. But whatever warnings Alamee was pouring into the royal ear seemed to be having no effect; he was told to hold his tongue, Prideaux and Flad were sped on their way with the letter, and when Prideaux asked for a drink of water before setting off he was told peremptorily that there wasn’t time.

I couldn’t guess what Napier would make of the lunatic message, but one thing was sure: he daren’t take action that might risk the prisoners. There was no knowing what Theodore was liable to do. At the moment of despatching the letter he was ready for a fight, and so were his followers, but within an hour he seemed to be thinking better of it. He called a council of his chiefs, insisting that I and his German artisans attend, and even placed me on a stool beside his seat of state. Then, with his chiefs ranged in a semi circle before him—a dozen black villains with their spears and swords across their knees, looking daggers at me and the square heads—he began to shout abuse at them, much in the style of his letter to Napier: they had betrayed him when his back was turned, they were sheep when he wasn’t on hand to inspire them, they were a heathen generation whom he had nourished and sheltered in a heathen land, but now he was here to lead and inspire, and out of the evil that he had done, good would surely come. So let them speak: what was to be done?

They were in no doubt. I can see them now, the dark faces with their teeth bared, the clenched fists thumping their knees as one after another voted to kill the prisoners and fight to the death; Ras Engedda, the chief minister, even hinted that Theodore had been too soft altogether; the prisoners should be herded into a hut and burned alive if Napier attacked. This was received with acclamation by all but two, Alamee and another, and I feared the worst until I noticed that Theodore was looking sourer with each suc cessive vote for the war party, and all of a sudden he exploded.

“Are you blind that you cannot see the English want only their prisoners? Let them go and we shall have peace, but if they are hurt not one of us will be left alive! You urge me to war and reproach me for weakness, so kill me if you will, but do not revile me!” He was fairly foaming, driving his spear into the carpet again, and they piled out in haste, all but Ras Engedda and Alamee and another whom he sent post-haste to bring the prisoners down from Magdala. Then he calmed down, and gave me the sanest, happiest smile.

“Be of good cheer, my best of friends!” says he, and to the Germans: “And you also, good friends and servants who have worked so well for me. Soon you will be with your rescuers.”

Which cheered them up no end, and they went out blessing him and tugging their forelocks—and they were no sooner through the fly than he snatched a pistol from his belt, shoved it between his teeth, and squeezed the trigger—and it misfired. But he was a trier, the same Theodore; before I’d time to think “That’s your sort, old man!” he’d thumbed back the second hammer, and if Engedda hadn’t made a flying dive, the interfering ass, and knocked the piece from his hand, the pavilion canopy would have needed laundering, for this barrel went off splendidly and blew a hole in the tent-pole. After which Theodore groaned, sighed, threw his shama over his face, lay down, and went to sleep.

I, out of sheer curiosity, picked up the pistol and took the cap from the barrel that had misfired. It looked sound, so I tapped it smartly with the pistol butt, and it cracked with a puff of smoke. Why it had missed fire, heaven knows; perhaps there’s a fate that looks after mad monarchs.

Dr Blanc told me later that when they received the summons to go down to Theodore, they were sure they were going to die. The Abs guarding them were full of woe and weeping, bidding them farewell, and when they came down the track from the Kobet Bar Gate of Magdala and across the Islamgee plain towards the Fala saddle, sure enough there was a firing party waiting for them, and your correspondent having the conniptions as I watched the ragged little party plodding towards us. For when a messenger had come to tell Theodore they were on their way, he had suddenly roused himself, bidden me sharply to accompany him, and strode out on to the Islamgee plain, calling for a file of musketeers.