Flashman on the March

wrapped, by Samuel, I believe; they shovelled it into the shallow grave, and that was the end of the heir to Solomon and Sheba and Prester John.

They like to say he was mad, as though that paid for all, but I saw him sane as well as mad, and a vile, cruel bastard he was, as foul as Caligula or Attila, and got only a tiny part of what he deserved. I remember Gondar, and the slaughter of Islamgee, and if anyone ever deserved a Hell, he did.

Meanwhile, the campaign was done, the captives free, Magdala in immense confusion with thousands of Ab fugitives to be looked after, herded down into the plain, and protected from the sur rounding Gallas, who not unreasonably were athirst for a share of the loot of the amba. They were disappointed, for the Micks and Sappers and little Holmes of the British Museum got in first, and the Gallas were dispersed by rifle fire, which I thought a mite hard, since their blockade had been so vital to our success. As to the loot, I heard there was a fair amount of precious stuff picked up, but most of it was bought up by the prize-master and sent down to Arogee on the elephants. [57]

For once—and for the only time in my experience of sixty years’ soldiering in heaven knows how many campaigns—there was no butcher’s bill. We hadn’t lost a man in storming Magdala, just seventeen wounded, and with only two dead at Arogee and one care less chap who shot himself accidentally on the march up, [58] I doubt if we had more than half a dozen fatalities in the whole campaign, mortally sick included. If there were nothing else to testify to Napier’s genius, that casualty return alone would do, for I never heard of its like in war. [59]

I spent only one night on the Magdala amba, for the place was as foul as a midden, and became a positive bedlam when the looters discovered a great cache of tej in the royal cellar. Private Shaughnessy and his chums came calling, eager to pay their respects and inquire after my health, Sorr Harry man, dear—it’s hell to be popular with the riff-raff. So after seeing Theodore planted, I took a mule down to Napier’s head-quarters at Arogee, and found myself a billet with Charlie Fraser, who commanded the staff and was colonel in my old regiment, the 11th Cherrypickers. Not that it was much quieter there, for there were upwards of thirty thousand Abs about the place, warriors as well as civilians who’d fled from Magdala. Among them were the two queens, Tooroo-Wark and Tamagno, and their retinues, and nearly three hundred of Theodore’s political prisoners, princes and chiefs, who’d been in the amba’s jails. Some of ’em had been in captivity for fifteen or twenty years, and one for more than thirty.

I’d been lucky. The great tyrant had held me for less than a week, and now it was all over, the captains and the queens would shortly be departing, [60] and I could rest content at last with only a mild ache in my calf, and take my ease after dangers and hardships nobly borne, resigned to endure the discomfort of a ride to the coast, fol lowed by a tranquil voyage home at H.M.G.’s expense. You’ve come through again, old lad, thinks I; no public credit, perhaps, but Napier’s right, you ain’t short in that line. Half a million in silver through your hands, and not a penny of it to bless yourself with, but what o’ that? Elspeth and I had enough between us… and the mere thought of her name brought the glorious realisation that in a few short weeks I’d be reunited with all that glorious milk-white goodness that had been lying fallow (I hoped, but with her you never could tell) while I’d been wasting myself on Mexican trollops and suety frauleins and black barbarians. I could close my eyes and see her, taste her red lips, inhale the perfume of her blonde curls… oh, the blazes with gallivanting about the world, I was for home for good this time, and the sooner Napier broke camp and marched north, the better.

At that, he stayed not upon the order of his going. With Theodore dead, Abyssinia was without a ruler, and while Napier was adamant that the succession was no business of ours, he felt bound to settle the possession of Magdala itself, and ensure the safety of its inhabitants—that, he insisted, was a matter of national honour. But Magdala was the first horn of his dilemma: it lay in Galla territory, but Theodore had captured and held it for ten years as a bulwark against Muslim encroachment on Christian Abyssinia, and Napier didn’t want to change that. So it was decided to offer the amba to Gobayzy of Lasta, the closest available Christian monarch. From all I’d heard, he was a sorry muffin, but it was no concern of mine, although I’d have given the place to Masteeat, for old gallops’ sake. She had the same notion, as did Warkite, her elder sister and rival for the supreme monarchy of all the Galla tribes; with Uliba now singing in the choir invisible they were the only claimants to the throne, and sure enough, within two days of the fall of Magdala, up they rolled to Arogee to state their cases.

Warkite was first to arrive, a plain, querulous creature but not quite the witch-like crone I’d been led to expect. Her handicap was that while Masteeat had a son who’d make a king some day, Warkite’s boy had been murdered by Theodore, and though she had a grandson, he was reputed illegitimate. She’d been consorting with Menelek, King of Shoa, the despised “fat boy” who had once laid siege to Magdala but lost his nerve and turned tail when it was at his mercy. Now, she made a poor impression on Napier, lamenting her misfortunes, railing against Masteeat, and looking less regal by the minute.

Napier asked Speedy and me aside what we thought. I said that if it came to a war Masteeat would eat her alive, having the men, the brains, and the will. Speedy agreed, adding that Masteeat had turned up trumps against Theodore, and should be recognised Queen of Galla, whoever had Magdala.

So that was Warkite for the workhouse. When Napier asked if she couldn’t be reconciled with her sister, she let out a great screeching laugh and cried that if they made peace today, Masteeat would betray her tomorrow. Word came just then that Masteeat was expected hourly, and Warkite was off like a rising grouse, never to be seen again.

I confess I was looking forward to my Lion Queen’s arrival, and she came in style, with an entourage of warriors and servants, sashaying along under a great brolly borne by minions, her imposing bulk magnificent in silks of every colour, festooned with jewellery, a turban with an aigret swathing her braids, and bearing a silver-mounted sceptre. The whole staff were on hand to gape at her, and she acknowledged them with a beaming smile and queenly incli nations, head high and hand extended in regal fashion as Napier came to greet her. She was overwhelming, and for a moment I thought he’d kiss her hand, but he checked in time and gave her a stiff bow, hat in hand.

He was about to present his staff when she gave a great whoop of 'Basha Fallakal” at the sight of Speedy, while I was favoured with a sleepy smile but no sign at all of recognition; since the last time we’d met had been at the gallop on the floor of her dining-room, I thought her demeanour was in quite the best taste, friendly but entirely decorous. To the others she was all dignified affability, being still sober. Napier clearly was impressed, and as Speedy remarked to me: “There’s our Queen of all Galla, what?”

They gave her dinner, and she entranced and appalled the company by laying into the goods like a starving python; as Stanley reported: “She ate like a gourmande, disposing of what came before her without regard to the horrified looks… pudding before beef, blancmange with potatoes… emitting labial smacks like pistol cracks.” She also drank like a fish, shouting with laughter, more boisterous and vulgar with every draught… and no one, even Napier, seemed to mind a bit. It may have been her exotic novelty, or her undoubted sexual attraction, or simply the good nature that shone out of her, but I think there was also a recognition that despite her gross manners she was altogether too formidable to be over looked. [61]

Speedy and I were the only ones present who could talk to her directly without an interpreter, and when she’d spoken with him a few minutes alone over the coffee, she beckoned me to take his place beside her. Watching her across the table during the meal, I’d been bound to wonder what she knew of the fate of Uliba-Wark, if anything, and if she might refer to it; now, she did, but in a most roundabout way, and to this day I can only guess how she came to learn what befell on that ghastly night. Perhaps some Galla escaped the massacre; I can only repeat what she said after I had filled her cup with tej, and she had gulped it down, wiped her lips with the tail of her turban, and smiled her fat-cheeked saucy smile.

“The Basha Fallaka says I am to have my fifty thousand dollars. Your Dedjaz Napier—what a fine and courtly man he is!—has pledged his word. But', she pouted and took another swig, “he does not say whether I am to have Magdala.” She looked a question.

“If my word goes for anything, you will. But you know it’s been offered to Gobayzy.”

She giggled maliciously. “Gobayzy will shudder away like a frightened bride! What, accept an amba surrounded by my warriors? He’d sweat his fat carcase to a shadow at the mere thought. No, he will refuse, beyond doubt.”

“Then Magdala’s yours, lion lady. There is no one else.”

She nodded, sipped and wiped again, and sat for a moment. Then she spoke quietly: “Uliba-Wark is at peace now. My little Uliba, who loved and hated me. Perhaps she loved and hated you also. I do not know and I do not ask.” She took another sip and set down her cup. “You were there when she died. No, do not tell me of it. Some