If there was a man in those days who could move faster in a crisis than H. P. Flashman, I never met him – but there was a woman who could have given me a head start, Uliba-Wark of Tigre, the nearest thing I ever saw to chain lightning with a link snapped. Before I’d even taken in the meaning of that noise without, she was past me like a whippet, kicking the water chatti on to the fire as she sped to the door. A second later I was beside her, peering through a crack in the ramshackle timbers, and there at the other end of the plaza, a bare fifty yards off, torches were flaring in the dark and shadowy figures of men and horses were moving through the ruins.
Had they caught a glimpse of our fire through the rickety timbers? It seemed not; Uliba’s quick action had doused it in a hissing cloud of steam, and there was no cry of alarm from the torch-bearers, whoever they might be – a question I put to her in a hysterical squeak as we crouched in the darkness.
“Brigands!” she gasped. “Soudanis, surely – no troops of Habesh or honest travellers would be abroad in this weather at night, least of all in Gondar the accursed!” She didn’t need to add that discovery would mean rape and enslavement for her and unspeakable death for me; that’s what she’d expected from her own Galla kinsfolk, and Soudanis were notoriously monsters of cruelty. My instinct was that we should bolt from the side door with a couple of horses, but she cut off my breathless suggestion by retorting that they would run us down in no time, and if we lay low the odds were they’d pass us by. Ignoring the only decent shelter in this bloody town? says I, but before she could reply there was a sudden shout from the darkness, followed by a commotion in Arabic which I couldn’t make out, and then Uliba’s fierce whisper in my ear: “They’ve smelt our fire!” And as if that wasn’t enough, one of the bandits’ horses decided to neigh its confounded head off, which brought an answering high-pitched whinny from the nave behind us.
All things considered, I think Uliba and I showed uncommon presence of mind. Through the crack in the door we could see the bandit gang starting towards us in full cry, but before they’d gone a yard I had her by the wrist and was making tracks for the nave; flight from the church on foot was out of the question, there wasn’t time to mount up before they’d be on us, but there was that heaven-sent cellar in front of the altar, and with the nave barely lit by the moonshine through the high windows they’d never see the trap. I had it flung back in a twinkling, but to my consternation Uliba pulled free from my grasp and raced to the side door, thrusting it open before running back to me, the clever lass – the bandits would see it and think we’d gone that way; I’d used the same dodge myself when pursued by peelers at home. I swung her down into the cellar, she dropped like an acrobat, and a second later I was slipping over the edge, closing the trap above me as I jumped the last few feet to the cellar floor.
We heard the church door crash open, and pounding feet, but they wasted no time in exclamation, and the first words I heard were a sharp command in Arabic, directing pursuit through the side door. They were in the nave, taking quick stock like the professional chaps they were, and presently their voices filtered down to us through the ill-fitting trap, while we clung together instinctively in the dank little cellar, like children at hide-and-seek.
“Three of them, Sadat?”
“Nay, one of those beasts is a pack-animal. And only two have eaten and drunk by the dead fire, one of them a woman.”
“How can you tell?”
“Use your nose, fool! Musk-oil.”
“Ha, she should be young, then!” Coarse laughter. “Hey, Yusuf, look well out yonder! She can’t have gone far!”
Suddenly light was shining down through the cracks in the trap; they’d brought their torches into the nave, and must have fixed them, for the light shone steady. Oh, God, would they see the trap? We huddled as far back as we could go to the side of the cellar, in the hope that if the trap were opened we’d be out of eyeshot of anyone looking down – unless they dropped in, so to speak … Quite so.
We could only wait, Uliba’s cheek running sweat against mine, while heavy feet thumped the wooden flooring just above our heads, and Sadat the musk-oil expert was saying that this place would do as well as any other, so let Yakub and Gamal bring the stuff inside, and have a care how they handled it, careless dogs that they were.
Now there was great bustle, with more of the gang arriving, sounds of heaving and exertion and commands, a ponderous weight dropped on the floorboards, and through all the clamour a voice gentling our horses which had been alarmed by the uproar, while another was roaring to Yusuf for news of the fugitives supposedly being pursued through the night. Someone close above us was demanding what should be done with the stuff – and my blood froze at the reply:
“There must be a cellar under the trap yonder! What better place for the goods?” Uliba couldn’t repress a gasping sob. Then:
“Why has God ordained that I should ride with fools?” wonders Sadat. “What worse place could there be than one where folk are sure to look?”
“Eh? Oh, aye … well, then, where shall we put it?”
“Underground, camel-spawn! Yonder, by the wall, you dig a hole, and bury it, and cover all with rubble so that only one lynx-eyed and enlightened by God, like Mahmud here, could hope to find it!”
“Did he call me lynx-eyed and enlightened by God?”
“Aye, but he didn’t mean it. Get a spade, clown!”
“Why must I be the one to dig? Oh, lend a hand, then!”
Uliba was limp against me, gasping with relief, and I was shuddering weakly as I heard them hauling some heavy article across the trap, and then came the crunch and scrape and foul language of labourers delving in the packed earth. Above that we heard our horses being appraised and their burdens examined, men coming and going, a disgruntled Yusuf reporting that whoever the bastards were who had fled into the night, they were nowhere to be found, demands for rest and food, to which Sadat (who was evidently their captain) retorted that they were riding out as soon as the goods had been safely concealed, and other conversation of the kind you’d expect to hear from marauders discussing the affairs of the day. I wish now that I’d paid closer attention, for there was interesting stuff about the possibility of enlisting gang members as guards for the Metema caravan, or taking a slap at one of the supply depots being established by the godless farangi invaders, but I was in too fine a funk to concern myself with anything but keeping tight hold of Uliba as two interminable hours crawled past, and my heart stopped whenever a footstep came near the trap. Please, dear God, I kept muttering, don’t let any of ’em get curious about the cellar … and I was just beginning to believe they’d do their business and leave us undisturbed when …
“Aye, that’s deep enough. Lift it over.”
“Will it be safe? When do we return for it?”
“When we’ve scouted this farangi army and seen what’s to be had from them … perhaps from Theodore, too. He carries his treasury with him, like enough.”
“What, despoil Theodore? Go rob a lioness of her cubs!”
“Aye, we’d do better to carry our treasury safe to Kassala instead of burying it in this grave of serpents!”
“I hate to leave it here! God knows it cost enough in blood and sweat to get it!”
“Eh, Sadat, let’s have another look before we cover it! Just a look …”
Cries of agreement, and Sadat, the indulgent ass, let them go ahead, there was a crash as of a lid being thrown back, delighted gloating, a warning snarl to Mahmud to take care, and then an almighty clatter of coin being dropped, ringing and rolling across the boards – and, dear Jesus, dropping through the cracks in the trap to the floor of the cellar! Uliba sobbed, my innards did a cartwheel, and recrimination raged overhead, Mahmud being cursed for an idiot, coins being scraped up, some mean son-of-a-bitch crying that a few had fallen through the trap, Sadat shouting to let ’em alone and get the chest closed and interred, and the mean bastard crying that he was shot if he’d lose them … and throwing back the trapdoor.
Torch-glare suddenly lit up the centre of the cellar, but we were in deep shadow against the side wall, and all that we could see through the open trap was two pairs of boots and robed legs up to the thigh; we must be out of their owners’ line of vision, but if they stooped to look under the floor, would they see us in the gloom? If they descended …
“There they are! By Shaitan, Sadat, if you don’t want ’em, I do!” There must have been a dozen or more dollars glinting on the stony rubble of the floor, and as a booted leg swung over the edge of the trap I caught the glint of steel in Uliba’s hand in the shadows and my hand was on the butt of my Joslyn – for all the good that would do. The second boot swung down …
“Wait, you fool!” roars Sadat, laughing. “Look before you leap, man!”
There was a sudden howl of alarm from the man about to jump, the booted legs shot upwards as he fairly threw himself out of the trap, his mates crowing with mirth, and I stood paralysed between relief and revulsion.
It is the practice of the female scorpion, after giving birth, to carry her young on her back, and even with six of the loathsome little transparent monsters in residence there was still no lack of room on the scaly top of the enormous yellow horror scuttling among the fallen coins. She must have been six disgusting inches long, not counting the great sting curved up and over her ghastly brood – and she wasn’t alone in her nest, either; Papa and a couple of uncles were on hand, and a joyous sight they all were, bless their horny little hides, for they’d saved us from detection and death, no error. Not that they’d have done our intruder any harm through his stout half-boots, but they were a grand discouragement to coin collecting.
The trap was slammed shut to a chorus of jeers and taunts, and we were left in darkness and, in my case, imminent danger of heart failure. I was drenched in sweat, and Uliba was shaking as though with an ague. The danger might have passed, but it hadn’t gone; the force with which the trap had been closed had broken one of its slats, and through the gap I had a view beside which Mama Scorpion would have looked quite charming: the head and shoulders of a Soudani brigand listening to the orders which Sadat was giving for their departure. The odds are you’ll never meet one of the Soudani criminal classes, so I’ll tell you that this representative looked like an indescribably evil cathedral gargoyle, hook-nosed and vulpine, with a tuft of beard, a steel cap with chain-mail earguards over black hair falling to his shoulders, and a grinning mouthful of jagged yellow tusks. Happy the bride who wakes up to see that on the pillow, thinks I, and was dam’ glad when he moved out of sight.
Presently they left the nave, and we heard them mounting up, but by mutual consent (and not a word said) we stayed put until dawn, by which time we reckoned they’d be well away. It was not comfortable, for with those fine specimens of Buthus Arachnidae rustling about on the floor we daren’t sit or lie down, and while like the Soudani we were well shod against their stings, I found myself wondering if the horrid little buggers could climb or jump.34 My legs were painfully cramped by the time daylight began to filter through the broken trap, but after chafing some life into them and satisfying myself that all seemed quiet Chez Scorpio, I took three hasty strides, hurled back the trap, and swung myself out. Uliba followed quickly – and there we were, chilled to the bone at dawn in an empty church in a ghost city and not a thing to bless ourselves with except the clobber we stood in, my Joslyn and cartridge-belt, and Uliba’s knife. Our horses were gone with the saddle-bags containing all our food, gear, spare kit, and dollars, and we were a day’s march from Lake Tana and heaven knew how far from Queen Masteeat’s camp.
“Well, at least we can put our finances in order,” says I. “Like old Ali Baba, we’ve lain doggo while the Forty Thieves cached their loot; now all we have to do is find it and fill our pockets.” She hadn’t heard the old tale, so I told it to her while we fossicked about – she was much taken with Morgiana’s boiling the robbers in oil, I remember. The cache was easy to find under a layer of rubble by the wall of the nave, and at the cost of skinned fingers and broken nails we clawed up the loose earth to reveal a stout iron-shod chest. It wasn’t locked, and when I heaved up the lid we were looking at a sizeable fortune in Maria Theresas, jewellery, wrought precious metal, gold pieces of a currency unknown to me, and carved ivory. We filled my pockets and her wallets with the gourshis, a hundred dollars apiece or thereabouts, and reluctantly abandoned the rest except for a fine ebony-hafted Damascus scimitar which I took, and various jewelled bangles, necklaces, and a gold fillet and veil which Uliba fell on with cries of delight – she was a very feminine Amazon, really, preening herself in a polished silver hand mirror and gloating as she threw it and other choice pieces into the cellar so that the Soudanis would have to brave the scorpions to retrieve them, and lamenting that we couldn’t capture the female and her young and enclose them in the chest before we reburied it, thus ensuring a jolly surprise for the returning robbers. Quite splendid in her malice, she was; I’d not have been surprised if her braids had stood on end and hissed at me.
Being famished, and not knowing how soon the Soudanis might come back, we made speedy tracks out of Gondar. From a vantage point on the south wall of the ruined palace we could survey the country as far as Lake Tana some forty miles away, a distant gleam of silver in the morning sun, its forested shore stretching away into the haze. The sooner we were under cover in those woods, the better, so we travelled at the Highlander’s pace, a mile at the trot and a mile at the stride followed by a moment’s rest standing, and then away again. Uliba ran like a Diana and I like a labouring bullock, but not too bad for forty-five, and within the hour we were in sight of a village of the plain called Azez, which I supposed we should avoid, but Uliba said the time for concealment was past now that we were afoot, and besides we’d get no news of Masteeat if we continued to skulk in rocks and bushes.
“We must seek it out, in a safe place where there are safe people to question. No, not in the village.” We had stopped in a grove some way short of the little cluster of thatched huts, and she was shading her eyes to scan the low hills beyond. “There should be a monastery over yonder, of monks of St Antonius the Hermit … if the wars have passed them by. Monks know everything …”
“And if they recognise you? They could pass word to this fellow Gobayzy who’s after you, or even to Theodore –”
“We’ve seen no trace of Gobayzy, no one will recognise me this far south, and Theodore has no more bitter enemy than the Church since he plundered and murdered at Metraha last summer. Anyway, we have no choice, so come, and keep your ears open for the monastery bell.”
We set off across the plain, and as we went, skirting well wide of the village, she told me of Theodore’s crowning infamy at Metraha, an island in Lake Tana which had been a holy place of sanctuary from time immemorial, and consequently a haven much used by merchants to deposit their treasures – St Paul’s crossed with the Bank of England, if you like. Theodore had gained access to it by treachery, looted its vast store of gold, silver, grains, and precious stuff – and then herded the inhabitants, priests, merchants, women, and children into the principal buildings and burned them to death.
“So we run no risk of betrayal to Theodore. Rather,” says Uliba complacently, “will the holy fathers show all kindness and respect to a noble lady of Tigre bound for the court of the Queen of the Gallas, who had the misfortune to be robbed of her caravan by Soudani bandits who murdered her servants and would assuredly have slain her (or worse) had she not escaped by night with her faithful Hindee attendant. Hence her destitute condition –”
“Lucky for her she was able to deck her destitution with a few choice trinkets – oh, and a purse of dollars –”
“– which she was fortunate to be able to carry away with her, and from which she will make a generous gift to the monastery’s alms chest. If that does not move their pity,” says she, “I know nothing of Christian priests. Besides, these will be provincial simpletons, properly awe-stricken in the presence of rank.”
I didn’t doubt that, but one snag occurred to me. “They’re Coptic Christians, ain’t they … suppose they spot you for a Galla? After all, you’re on your way to Masteeat – can you pass as a Christian?”
She gave me her superior smile, and drew from the bosom of her tunic one of the necklaces she’d pinched from the Soudanis’ hoard: a fine cord of pale blue silk skilfully intertwined with gold and silver threads. “This is called matab; is it not beautiful? All Christians of Habesh wear them from their baptism; it is the first thing these Christos look for in each other. And this one, as you see, is of the most precious kind, such as only the high-born and wealthy would wear … ah, but listen! The bell!”
It was tolling faintly, but stopped as we entered the little valley in which stood a plain adobe building of no great size, walled, with an arched gateway, and surrounded by plots too small to be called fields in which white-robed Abs were digging and hoeing without enthusiasm. They stopped to stare as the high-born lady of Tigre, a striking figure in her scanty tunic, boots, and veiled fillet, sashayed towards the gate with her faithful Hindee attendant throwing a chest as he followed dutifully in her wake.
Chanting greeted us as we passed through the archway into a courtyard where a crowd of robed and turbaned jossers were waking the echoes with what I learned later was a Coptic psalm, and plainly we were intruding on a service – or, as it proved, a rehearsal for one, Palm Sunday no less, which fell a week hence. The turbaned lads were priests, bearing strange long wands with heads like crutches, while the commonalty and sundry infants carried palm fronds. To the fore was a dignified old file called the Abba (which I suppose is abbot); he wore a very stylish yellow leather coat and carried a curious article like a catapult with abacus beads between its arms, which he waved from time to time. In attendance were a priest bearing a fancy sort of decorated cross, a tiny chico with a bell as big as himself, and two deacons holding up an enormous Bible.a
Even as we appeared the singing stopped and the Abba began to read from the Bible, but left off in some confusion when one of the deacons drew his attention to Uliba-Wark, who was listening attentively, hand on hip, nodding approval. Everyone goggled at her, as well they might, for she was posed like the Queen of Sheba, waving a graceful hand to them to continue, and then turning aside to seat herself on a bench by the gateway. The Abba, who’d been taken flat aback (it dawned on me that there wasn’t another female in the courtyard), steadied up and began reading again in a shaky falsetto, but shooting little disturbed glances in Uliba’s direction as she crossed her legs and sat back, finger on cheek, gently smiling as though she were watching a show performed for her benefit. The reading finished (cut short, I suspect), the Abba and his gang retired through an inner doorway, shooting more little glances, and presently a bald chap with a staff of office approached Uliba and invited her within. She rose with dignity, made a little gesture to me which I interpreted as an order to scatter a few dollars to the hoi-polloi, and swanned away. I distributed, smirking, bowed tactfully to the cross-bearer who was leading the peasantry in another psalm, and hastened after my mistress like a good little minion.
Even with my limited Amharic I could follow much that was said at the audience which followed in the monastery chapel. Uliba was conducted with great deference to a chair hurriedly placed between the front pews, while the Abba enthroned himself nervously on a stool before the altar, his attendants standing by with palms, crutches, and open mouths. I don’t know if Coptic priests are celibate, but these gaped at her like hayseeds at a burlesque show in the Chicago Loop; I don’t suppose their modest little God-hutch had ever seen her like, and she played it like the grandest of dames, surveying them coolly and turning that elegant profile as she swept off her fillet and veil and handed them carelessly to me, looking stern beside her chair. She charmed them with a gracious apology for interrupting their rehearsal, and the Abba near fell off his stool assuring her that it didn’t matter tuppence, honestly, and please how could they serve her excellency?
This before she’d said a word about being a great swell on her way to a queen’s court, or being despoiled; she did it simply by style and looks and those remarkable legs, and had them eating out of her dainty palm. Awe-stricken, she’d said they’d be, and awestruck they were.
The account of our adventures which she gave them was succinct and fairly offhand, but it had them agog, knuckles to teeth and gasping concern. The Abba didn’t know what Habesh was coming to, what with evil emperors and foreign invaders and plundering rebels and noble ladies molested and robbed by heathen brigands, God forgive them, but what protection and comfort the Church could offer, she should have, and her servant too, infidel though he was. This consisted of food, drink, attention, prayers, the best chamber in the monastery placed at her ladyship’s disposal (with a mattress in the passage for Vilkins the butler), and the promise of such clothing, equipment, and transport as could be drummed up overnight.
I was given my vittles in the monks’ refectory, watched by curious and none too friendly eyes, for they’ve no use for non-Christians, and as a “Hindee” I was right beyond the pale. Uliba dined in some state in the Abba’s private apartments, and if the news she got was confused and disturbing, it was definite at least on the main point.
“Masteeat has her camp on the Abai river, below the falls which the people of Metcha call the Great Silver Smoke.” She was jubilant. “Five days’ journey by horse or camel, even by the western shore of Tana – see!” The Abba had given her a map, a pretty coloured thing with Lake Tana all little blue waves with boats afloat, and an Ark at anchor with hippos and pythons and monkeys clambering aboard under the eye of a distinctly Ethiopian Noah, the whole lot being blessed by a dusky Jesus. “Here at Azez we are forty miles from Gorgora, at the head of the lake; another fifty at most to Zage, and perhaps fifty down the Abai –”
“Why not the straight way, by the east shore?” I could see it would cut the journey by as much as a third.
“Because Theodore had his camp at Kourata last year –” she tapped a finger on it “– and he will have troops there still, and who knows how many between the lake and his army which marches on Magdala? He has wasted all Begemder, and these churchmen say he is already at the Jedda ravine, but their news will be a week old; he may be close on Magdala by now.”
“And Masteeat’s army, by your reckoning, is about ninety miles from Magdala … where’s Napier, do they know?”
“They heard of him last at Antaloo, but that too will be old news. At best, he can hardly be more than a day’s march south of the Ashangi lake.” She traced a finger up from Magdala; Napier had a good hundred miles to go, by the look of it.
“Well, Theodore can win the race on a tight rein,” says I. “If he gets his guns into Magdala …” I didn’t care to think of that. The place was said to be impregnable, which was doubtless an exaggeration; British troops can take anywhere, given a commander who knows his business, but the Bughunter didn’t have time for a siege, not with his striking force at full stretch, with food and forage running low. If he came to a dead stop before Theodore’s defences … well, it would be a dead stop indeed, far from home and no way back. His army would starve where it stood, and Theodore’s highlanders could cut up the remains at leisure … no doubt with the rebel warlords joining in. My consolation was that I’d be better placed as a free agent with Uliba, rather than as a hapless lump of cannon-fodder in Napier’s Last Stand … I had a sudden horrid recollection of Gandamack, with the 44th trapped on the icy slope, Soutar with the colours round his middle, and the Ghazis closing in …
I asked about the rebels, and she spat. “Cattle! Cowards! They run in circles, frightened of Theodore, fearful of each other! That much is plain from this old fool of an Abba’s tale, but he knows little more to any purpose. That drunken fat sow Masteeat,” sneers she with satisfaction, “had the game won, had she used the wits she wastes in guzzling and coupling! Two months ago she stood before Magdala with her army, while its garrison of weaklings and traitors wrung their hands, willing to surrender but in dread of Theodore’s vengeance when he returned from plundering in Begemder. Oh, had I stood in her place they’d have surrendered fast enough!” She clenched her fists and shook them, and I believed her. “But she puts off, and idles away her opportunity, and is forced to retreat at last because the hyena Gobayzy and the jackal Menelek come prowling into Galla country, afraid to attack Magdala, but still outnumbering her, so she withdraws to the Abai. It is very well,” says she, pleased as Punch. “Things could not stand better!”
Blessed if I could see that, and I said so. “If she has cut and run, what’s the use in our going on? She and her army’ll be no help to Napier if they’re ninety miles away!”
She waved that aside. “Galla armies can move at speed. Besides, she’ll have left more warriors in the hills about Magdala, ready for action, than she’ll have taken to the Abai. Let the Queen of Wollo Galla but say the word and there will be a steel ring – was not that what your general called it? – round the amba of Magdala, with Theodore held fast within.”
The Queen of Wollo Galla … but which queen? We had been discussing her ambitions, and what part I might be called on to play in realising them, when the Soudanis had interrupted us, and the topic had not been resumed; well, it could be let lie for the moment. That she’d make a bid for her sister’s throne, I knew, if not when, where or how. In the meantime it was enough that we knew Masteeat’s whereabouts, and that these jovial monks would speed us on our way.
They didn’t stint us, either, with the loan of two camels, their saddle-bags filled with grub and flasks of tej, cloaks and blankets, and a couple of chicos to race ahead to make sure our coast was clear. Uliba made no offer of payment, simply fluttering a queenly hand at me, and I presented the chief deacon with a purse of fifty dollars, to which she added one of her bracelets which she presented in fine Lady Bountiful style to a small girl in the crowd – for every soul in the place, priests, lay brethren, labourers and menials, was on hand to see us off. We mounted the camels, they lurched to their feet, the Abba blessed us, and off we went with a camel groom trotting in our wake; he would bring the beasts back from Lake Tana, where we would seek other transport. A chorus of farewells followed us, and before we were out of earshot they were making a joyful noise to the Lord, either in rehearsal for Palm Sunday or rejoicing for the dollars.
a For a description and illustration of the Palm Sunday ceremony, see Simpson, Diary.