Flashman's Lady

  What, for that matter, could I do. in this nest of intrigue and terror, where my life depended on the whim of a diabolical despot who was undoubtedly mad, fickle, dangerous, and fiendishly cruel? (Not unlike my first governess, in a way, except that their notions of bath-time for little Harry were somewhat different.) I could only wait, helpless, for Laborde, and pray that he might have some news of Elspeth, and bring me hope of escape from this appalling pickle—and I was just reconciling myself to this unhappy prospect, when who should walk in but the man himself. I was amazed, overjoyed, and terrified all in the space of two heartbeats; he was smiling, but looking pale and breathing heavy, like a man who has just had a nasty start and survived it—which he had.

  “I have just come from the Queen,” says he—and he spoke in French, pretty loud. “My dear friend, I congratulate you. You have pleased her—as I hoped you would. When I was summoned, I confess”—he laughed with elaborate nonchalance—“I thought there had been some misunderstanding about my visit to you last night—that it had been reported, and false conclusions drawn—”

  “Frankathingammybob knew all about it,” says I, “He told me. For G-d’s sake, is there any news—”

  He cut me off with a grimace and a jerk of his head towards the door. “I believe it was on the suggestion of her majesty’s secretary that I was called to audience,” says he clearly. “He was much impressed by your qualifications, and wished me, as a loyal servant of the Queen’s, to add my recommendations to his own. I told her what I could—that you were a distinguished officer in the British service—which does not compare, of course, to the glorious army of Madagascar—and that you were full of zeal to serve her in a military capacity.” He winked heavily at me, nodding, and I cottoned on.

  “But of course!” cries I, ringing tones. “It is my dearest ambition—has been for years. I don’t know how many times the Duke of Wellington’s said to me: ‘Flash, old son, you won’t be a soldier till you’ve done time with the Malagassies. G-d help us if Boney had had a battalion of them at Waterloo.’ And I’m beside myself with happiness at the thought of serving a monarch of such graciousness, magnanimity, and peerless beauty.” If some eavesdropper was taking notes for the awful black b---h’s benefit, I might as well lay it on with a shovel. “I would gladly lay down my life at her feet.” There was a fair chance of that, too, if we had many gallops like that afternoon’s.

  Laborde looked satisfied, and launched into raptures about my good fortune, and how blessed lucky we were to have such a benevolent ruler. He couldn’t say enough for her, and of course I joined in, writhing with impatience to hear what news he might have of Elspeth. He knew what he was doing, though, for while he talked he fiddled with a gourd on the table, and when he took his hand away there was a slip of paper under the vessel. I waited five minutes after he’d gone, in case of prying eyes, palmed it, and read it surreptitiously as I stretched out on the bed.

  “She is safe in the house of Prince Rakota, the Queen’s son” (it read). “He has bought her. Have no fear. He is only sixteen, and virtuous. You shall see her when it is safe. Meanwhile, say nothing, as you value her life, and your own. Destroy this message instantly.”

  So I ate the d----d thing, speculating feverishly on the thought of Elspeth helpless in the hands of a nigger prince who had probably been covering every woman within reach since he was eight. Virtuous, eh? Just like his dear mama? If he was such a b----y paragon, why had he bought her—to iron his linen? Laborde must be off his head—why, when I was sixteen, I know what I’d have done if I’d seen Elspeth in a shop window with a sale ticket on her. It was too horrible to contemplate, so I went to sleep instead. After all, whatever was happening to Elspeth. I’d had a trying day myself.

  [Extract from the diary of Mrs Flashman, October—, 1844]

  Madagaskar is the most Singular and Interesting Isle, and I count myself most fortunate to have been so kindly received here—which is due entirely to the Sagacity and Energy of my darling H., who somehow contrived most cleverly to slip ashore from Don S.’s ship and make arrangements for our Enlargement and reception. Oh, happy, happy deliverance! ! I know not how he accomplished it, for I have not seen my Brave Hero since we landed, but my Love and Admiration for him know no bounds, as I shall make plain to him when once again I know the Rapture of being enfolded in his arms!

  I am at present residing in the Palace of Prince Rakoota, in the capital city (whose outlandish name I cannot attempt to reproduce, but it sounds like a dinner bell being rung!), having been brought here yesterday after a journey of many Starts and Adventures. I was brought ashore from Don S.’s ship by some Black Gentlemen—so I must call them, for they are people of consequence, and indeed, everybody’s black here. Don S. protested most violently, and became quite distracted, so that the black soldiers had to restrain him—but I was not much moved, for his Importunities of late had been most marked, and his conduct quite wild, and I was Heartily Sick of him. He has behaved odiously, for despite his protestations of Devotion to me, he has put me to the greatest inconvenience, very selfishly—and dear H. also, who received a horrid Graze on his person.

  I shall say no more of Don S., except that I am sorry so Refined and Agreeable a gentleman should have proved so wanting in behaviour, and been a deep Disappointment to me. But while glad to be shot of him, I was a trifle Uneasy with our Black hosts, the chief of whom I did not like at all, he was so Gross and Offhand, and stared at me in a horrid, familiar fashion, and even forgot himself so far as to handle my hair, growling to his friends in their Language (although he speaks tolerable French, for I heard him), so I addressed him in that Tongue, and said: “Your behaviour to a Gentlewoman is not becoming, sir, especially in one who wears the tartan of the 42nd, but I’m sure I suspect you have no right to it, for my Uncle Dougal was in the 92nd, and I never heard from him that any persons of your Colour were mustered in the Highland Brigade, not in Glasgow in any event. But if I am wrong I’m sure I apologise. I am very hungry, and where is my Husband?”

  This being received in discourteous silence, they put me in a sedan or palankeen, and brought me into the Country, although I objected strenuously and spoke quite sharply, but to no avail. I was in such distress of mind at having no word of dearest H., or knowing where I was being taken, and the people we passed came to Sure at me, which was disagreeable, although they seemed to be in some awe, and I decided what it was, that they had never seen a Lady of fair Hair and Complexion before, they are that Primitive. But I bore this Insolence with Dignity and Reserve, and boxed one of them over the lugs, after which they kept a more respectful distance. To help compose my fears I gave myself into Tranquil Contemplation of the marvels I saw en route, the Scenery being beyond description, the flowers of Brilliant Colours, and the Animal life of boundless variety and interest—especially a darling little beastie called the Eye-Eye, which is half-monkey, half-rat with the drollest wistful eyes—which I suppose is why they call it Eye-Eye, and they won’t kill it. Its antics are diverting.

  However, I shall write later at leisure on the Attractions of this singular countryside, when the Descriptive Muse is upon me. Also about the great city of Madagaskar, and my Introduction to His R.H. Prince Rakoota, by a French resident, M. La Board, who is on terms of Intimacy with the Prince. From him I learnt that dear H. has been engaged on Military Business of Importance by no less a Personage than H.M. The Queen of Madagaskar—and I jalouse that my darling very cleverly offered them his Services in exchange for our reception here. They, naturally, would be Eager to avail themselves of so Distinguished an Officer, which doubtless explains the Haste with which he left from the Coast, without even seeing me—which caused me some pique, although I am sure he knows best. I don’t quite understand it, but M. La Board impressed on me the delicate nature of the work, and since he and the Prince are insistent that nothing must prejudice it, I resign myself with Good Humour and composure to wait and see, as a good wife should, and only hope my Hero will soon be spared from his
Duties to visit me.

  I am v. comfortable in the Prince’s delightful Palace, and receive every Consideration and Kindness. The Prince is just a laddie, but speaks good French with a pretty hesitation, and is all amiability. He is v. black, well-grown and handsome, smiling readily, and I flatter myself he is more than a little fetched by me, but he is so young and boyish that an expression of Admiration which might be thought a little forward in a person more mature, may be excused in him as a natural youthful gallantry. He is a little shy, and has a wistful regard. I could wish that I had my proper wardrobe, for I am in some hope that, when dearest H. returns, he may take me to visit the Queen, who seems from all I have heard to be a Remarkable Person and held in great Esteem. However, if I am so Honoured, I shall make do with what I have, and rely on my natural breeding and appearance to uphold my Country’s credit among these People, for as our Beloved Bard has it, the rank is but the Guinea Stamp, and I’m sure that an English Lady may move Unashamed in any Society, especially if she has the Grace and Looks to carry it off.

  [End of extract—“natural breeding”, indeed! And where did you come by that, miss? Paisley, like the rest of us! !—G. de R.]

  * This spear was known as the “Hater of Lies”.

  * Supernatural, divine; (colloq.) wonderful.

  It’s been my experience that however strange or desperate the plight you may find yourself in, if there’s nothing else for it, you just get on with the business in hand as though it was the most natural thing in the world. By various quirks of fate I’ve landed up as an Indian butler, a Crown Prince, a cottonfield slave-driver, a gambling-hell proprietor, and G-d knows what besides—all occupations from which I’d have run a mile if I’d been able. But I couldn’t, so I made the best of ’em, and before I knew it I was fretting about silver polish or court precedent or how we were to get the crop in by November or whether the blackjack dealer was holding out, and almost forgetting that the real world to which I rightly belonged was still out there somewheres. Self-defence, I suppose—but it keeps you sane when by rights you ought to be sinking into madness and despair.

  So when they gave me the army of Madagascar to drill and train. I simply shut my mind to the horrors of my situation and went at it like Frederick the Great with a wasp in his pants. I believe it saw me through one of the blackest periods of my life—a time so confused, when I look back, that I have difficulty in placing the events of those first few weeks in their proper order, or even making much sense of them. I knew so little then about the place, and that little was so strange and horrid that it left the mind numb. Only gradually did I come to have a clear picture of that savage, mock-civilised country, with its amazing people and customs, and understand my own peculiar station in it, and begin trying to scheme a way out. At first it was just a frightening turmoil, in which I could only do what I had to do, but I’ll describe it as best I can, so that you may learn about it as I did, and have the background to the astonishing events that followed.

  I had the army, then, to reform and instruct, and if you think that an uncommon responsible job for the newest arrived foreign slave, remember that it was European-modelled, but that they hadn’t seen a white instructor in years. There was another good reason, too, for my appointment, but I didn’t find out about that until much later. Anyway, there it was, and I’m bound to say the work was as near to being a pleasure as anything could be in that place. For they were absolutely first-class, and as soon as I saw this, when I had the regiments reviewed on the great plain outside the city, I thought to myself, right, my boy, perfection is our ticket. They’re good, but there’s nothing easier than spending ten hours a day hounding their commanders to make ’em better. And that’s what I did.

  Fankanonikaka had told me I had a free hand; he came down with me to that first review, when the five regiments stationed at Antan’, and the palace guard, marched past under my critical eye.

  “Like changing guard, left right, boom-boom, mighty fine!” cries he. “Being best soldiers in world, not half, eh? Right turning, shouldering arms, altogether, ha-ha!” He beamed at the comic opera generals and colonels who were standing with us, puffed up with pride as they watched their battalions. “You liking greatly. Sergeant-General Flashman?”

  I just grunted, had them halted, and plunged straight in among the ranks, looking for the first fault I could find. There was a black face badly shaven, so I stamped and swore and raved as though they’d just lost a battle, while the staff stared and shook, and little Fankanonikaka was ready to burst into tears.

  “Soldiers?” I bellowed. “Look at that slovenly brute, tripping over his bl----d beard! Has he shaved today? Has he ever shaved? Stand still, you mangy b----rds, or I’ll flog every second man! Slouch in front of me, will you, with your chins like a monkey’s backside? I’ll show you, my pretties! Oh, yes, we’ll take note of this! Mr Fankanonikaka, I thought you spoke to me of an army—you weren’t referring to this mouldy rabble, I suppose?”

  Of course, it put them into fits. There were generals gaping and protesting and falling over their sabres, while I strode about hazing right and left—dull buttons, unpolished leather, whatever I could find. But I wouldn’t let ’em touch the offending soldier—ah, no. I degraded his section commander on the spot, ordered his colonel into arrest, and scarified the staff; that’s the way to get ’em hopping. And when I’d done roaring. I had the whole outfit, officers and all, marched and wheeled and turned across that square for three solid hours, and then, when they were fit to drop, I made ’em stand for forty minutes stock-still, at the present, while I ranged among them, sniffing and growling, with Fankanonikaka and the staff trotting miserably at my heels. I was careful to snarl a word of praise here and there, and then I singled out the unshaven chap, slapped him, told him not to do it again, pinched his ear à la Napoleon, and said I had high hopes of him. (Talk about discipline; come to old Flash and I’ll learn you things they don’t teach at Sandhurst.)

  After that it was plain sailing. They realised they were in the grip of a mad martinet, and went crazy perfecting their drill and turn-out, with their officers working ’em till they dropped, while Flashy strolled about glaring, or sat in his office yelling for lists and returns of everything under the sun. With my ready ear for languages, I picked up a little Malagassy, but for the most part transmitted my orders in French, which the better-educated officers understood. I built a fearsome reputation through stickling over trivialities, and set the seal on it by publicly flogging a colonel (because one of his men was late for roll-call) at the first of the great fortnightly reviews which the Queen and court attended. This shocked the officers, entertained the troops, and delighted her majesty, if the glitter in her eye was anything to go by. She sat like a brooding black idol most of the time, in her red sari and ceremonial gold crown under the striped brolly of state, but as soon as the lashing started I noticed her hand clenching at every stroke, and when the poor d---l began to squeal, she grunted with satisfaction. It’s a great gift, knowing the way to a woman’s heart.

  I was careful, though, in my disciplinary methods. I soon got a notion of who the important and influential senior officers were, and toadied ’em sickening in my bluff, soldierly way, while oppressing their subordinates most d--nably, and keeping the troops in a state of terrified admiration. Given time I dare say I’d have ruined the morale of that army for good and all.

  Since most of the leading aristocrats held high military rank, and took their duties seriously in a pathetically incompetent way (just like our own, really). I gradually became acquainted—not to say friendly—with the governing class, and began to see how the land lay in court, camp, city, and countryside. It was simple enough, for society was governed by a rigid caste system even stricter than that of India, although there was no religious element at all. There were eleven castes, starting at the bottom with the black Malagassy slaves; above them, in tenth place, were the while slaves, of whom there weren’t many apart from me, and I was special, as I’ll expl
ain—but ain’t that interesting, that a black society held white superior to black, in the slave line? We were, of course, but it didn’t make much odds, since all of us were far below the ninth caste, which consisted of the general public, who had to work for a living, and included everyone from professional people and merchants right down to the free labourers and peasantry.

  Then there were six castes of nobles, from the eighth to the third, and what the differences were I never found out, except that they mattered immensely. The Malagassy upper crust are fearful snobs, and put on immense airs with each other—a third-rank count or baron (these are the titles they give themselves) will be far more civil to a slave than to a sixth-rank nobleman, and the caste rules governing them are harsher even than for the lower orders. For example, a male noble can’t marry a woman of superior caste; he can marry beneath himself, but he mustn’t marry a slave—if he docs, he’s sold into slavery himself and the woman is executed. Simple, says you, they just won’t marry slaves, then—but the silly b-----s do, quite often, because they’re crazy, like their infernal country.

  The second caste consisted of the monarch’s family, poor souls, and at the top came the first caste, an exclusive group of one—the Queen, who was divine, although quite what that meant wasn’t clear, since they don’t have gods in Madagascar. What was certain, though, was that she was the most absolute of absolute tyrants, governing solely by her own whim and caprice, which, since she was stark mad and abominably cruel, made for interesting times all round.

  That much you have probably gathered already, from my description of her and of the horrors I’d seen, but you have to imagine what it was like to be living at the mercy of that creature, day in day out, without hope of release. Fear spread from her like a mist, and if her court was a proper little viper’s nest of intrigue and spying and plotting, it wasn’t because her nobles and advisers were scheming for power, but for sheer survival. They went in terror of those evil snake eyes and that flat grunting voice so rarely heard—and then usually to order arrest, torture, and horrible death. Those are easy words to write, and you probably think they’re an exaggeration; they’re not. That beastly slaughter I’d witnessed under the cliff at Ambohipotsy was just a piece of the regular ritual of purge and persecution and butchery which was everyday at Antan’ in my time; her appetite for blood and suffering was insatiable, and all the worse because it was unpredictable.