No one who has not stood on the block can truly understand the horror of slavery. To be thrust up in public, before a crowd of leering niggers, waiting your turn while your fellow-unfortunates are knocked down, one by one to the highest bidder, and you stand like a beast in a pen, all dignity, manhood, even humanity gone. Aye, it’s h--l. It’s even worse when nobody buys you.
I couldn’t credit it – not even an opening bid! Imagine it – “here’s Flashy, gentlemen, young and in prime fettle, no previous owners, guaranteed of sound wind, no heelbug, highly recommended by superiors and ladies of quality, well set-up when he’s shaved, talks like a book, and a b----r to ride! Who’ll say a hundred? Fifty? Twenty? Come, come gentlemen, the hair on his head’s worth more than that! Do I hear ten? Five, then? Three? For a capital bargain with years of wear in him? Do I hear one? Not for a fellow who dismissed Felix, Pilch, and Mynn in three deliveries? Oh, well, Ikey, put him back on the shelf, and tell the knackers to come and collect him.”
It was downright humiliating, especially with the bidding for my black companions as brisk as a morning breeze. Mind you, the thought of being bought by one of those disgusting Malagassies was revolting – still, I couldn’t but feel disgruntled when they shoved me back in the warehouse alone, the Selling Plater nobody wanted. It was night before I found out the reason – for night brought Laborde, past bribed officials and guards, with soap, a gourd of water, a razor, and enough bad news to last a lifetime.
“It is simple,” says he, when he had slipped a coin to the sentry and we were locked in alone. He spoke French now, which he’d been afraid to do in public for fear of eavesdroppers. “I had no time to tell you. The other slaves were being sold for debt, or crime. You, as a castaway, are in effect crown property; your display on the block was a mere formality, for no one would dare to bid. You belong to the Queen – as I did, when I was shipwrecked years ago.”
“But … but you ain’t a slave! Can’t you get away?”
“No one gets away,” says he, flatly, and it was now I learned a good deal of what I’ve told you already – of the monstrous tyranny of Queen Ranavalona, her hatred of foreigners which had caused Madagascar to be quite cut off from the world, of the diabolical practice of “losing” – which is their word for enslaving – all strangers.
“For five years I served that terrible woman,” Laborde concluded. “I am an engineer – you will have seen my lightning rods on the houses. I am also skilled in the making of armaments, and I cast cannon for her. My reward was freedom” – he laughed shortly – “but not freedom to leave. I shall never escape – nor will you, unless—” He broke off, and then hurried on. “But refresh yourself, my friend. Wash and shave, at least, while you tell me more of your own misfortune. We have little time.” He glanced towards the door. “The guards are safe for the moment, but safety lasts a short while in Madagascar.”
So I told him my tale in full, while I washed and shaved by the flickering light of his lantern, and sponged the filth from the shreds in which I was clothed. While I talked I got a good look at him – he was younger than I’d thought, about fifty, and almost as big as I, a handsome, decent-looking cove, fast and active, but plainly as nervous as a cat; he was forever starting at sounds outside, and when he talked it was in an urgent whisper.
“I shall inquire about your wife,” says he when I’d done. “They will have brought her ashore almost certainly – they lose no chance of enslaving foreigners. This man Solomon I know of – he trades in guns and European goods, in exchange for Malagassy spices, balsam, and gums. He is tolerated, but he will have been powerless to protect your lady. I shall find out where she is, and then – we shall see. It may take time, you understand; it is dangerous. They are so suspicious, these people – I run great risk by coming to see you, even.”
“Then why d’you do it?” says I, for I’m inclined to be leery of gifts brought at peril to the giver; I was nothing to him, after all. He muttered something about befriending a fellow-European, and the comradeship of men-at-arms, but I wasn’t fooled. Kindness might be one of his motives, but there were others, too, that he wasn’t telling about, or I was much mistaken. However, that could wait.
“What’ll they do with me?” I asked, and he looked me up and down, and then glanced away, uneasily.
“If the Queen is pleased with you, she may give you a favoured position – as she did with me.” He hesitated. “It is for this reason I help you to make yourself presentable – you are very large and … personable. Since you are a soldier, and the army is her great passion, it is possible that you will be employed in its instruction – drilling, manoeuvring, that kind of thing. You have seen her soldiers, so you are aware that they have been trained by European methods – there was a British bandmaster here, many years ago, under the old treaty, but nowadays such windfalls are rare. Yes …” he gave me that odd, wary glance again, “your future could be assured – but I beg of you, as you value your life, be careful. She is mad, you see – if you give the least offence, in any way, or if she suspects you – even the fact that I, a fellow-foreigner, have spoken to you, could be sufficient, which is why I struck you publicly today …”
He was looking thoroughly scared, although I felt instinctively he wasn’t a man who scared easy. “If you displease her – then it will be the perpetual corvée – the forced labour. Perhaps even the pits, which you saw yesterday.” He shook his head. “Oh, my friend, you do not even begin to understand. That happens daily here. Rome under Nero – it was nothing!”
“But in G-d’s name! Can nothing be done? Why don’t they … make away with her? Haven’t you tried to escape, even?”
“You will see,” says he. “And please, do not ask such questions – do not even think them. Not yet.” He seemed to be on the point of saying more, but decided not to. “I will speak of you to Prince Rakota – he is her son, and as great an angel as his mother is a devil. He will help you if he can – he is young, but he is kind. If only he … but there! Now, what can I tell you? The Queen speaks a little French, a few of her courtiers and advisers also, so when you encounter me hereafter, as you will, remember that. If you have anything secret to say, speak English, but not too much, or they will suspect you. What else? When you approach the Queen, advance and retire right foot first; address her in French as ‘God’ – ‘ma Dieu’, you understand? Or as ‘great glory’, or ‘great lake supplying all water”. You must give her a gift, or rather, two gifts – they must always be presented in pairs. See, I have brought you these.” And he handed me two silver coins – Mexican dollars, of all things. “If, in her presence, you happen to notice a carved boar’s tusk, with a piece of red ribbon attached to it – it may be on a table, or somewhere – fall down prostrate before it.”
I was gaping at him, and he stamped, Frog-like, with impatience. “You must do these things – they will please her! That tusk is Rafantanka, her personal fetish, as holy as she is herself. But above all-whatever she commands, do it at once, without an instant’s hesitation. Betray no surprise at anything. Do not mention the numbers six or eight, or you are finished. Never, on your life, say of a thing that it is ‘as big as the palace’. What else?” He struck his forehead. “Oh, so many things! But believe me, in this lunatic asylum, they matter! They may mean the difference between life and – horrible death.”
“My G-d!” says I, sitting down weakly, and he patted me on the shoulder.
“There, my friend. I tell you these things to prepare you, so that you may have a better chance to … to survive. Now I must go. Try to remember what I’ve said. Meanwhile, I shall find out what I can about your wife – but for G-d’s sake, do not mention her existence to another living soul! That would be fatal to you both. And … do not give up hope.” He looked at me, and for a second the apprehension had died out of his face; he was a tough, steady-looking lad when he wanted to be.36 “If I have frightened you – well, it is because there is much to fear, and I would have you on guard so far as may be.” He slapped my arm. “Bien. Dieu vous garde.”
Then he was at the door, calling softly for the guard, but even as it opened he was back again, cat-footed, whispering.
“One other thing – when you approach the Queen, remember to lick her feet, as a slave should. It will tell in your favour. But not if they are dusted with pink powder. That is poison.” He paused. “On second thoughts, if they are so dusted, lick them thoroughly. It will certainly be the quickest way to die. A bientôt!”
If I had my head in my hands, do you wonder? It couldn’t be true – where I was, what I’d heard, what lay ahead. But it was, and I knew it, which was why I plumped down on my knees, blubbering, and prayed like a drunk Methodist, just on the offchance that there is a God after all, for if He couldn’t help me, no one else could. I felt much worse for it; probably Arnold was right, and insincere prayers are just so much blasphemy. So I had a good curse instead, but that didn’t serve, either. Whichever way I tried to ease my mind, I still wasn’t looking forward to meeting royalty.
At least they didn’t keep me in suspense. At the crack of dawn they had me out, a file of soldiers under an officer to whom I tried to suggest that if I was going to be presented, so to speak, I’d be the better for a change of clothes. My shirt was reduced to a wisp, and my trousers no better than a ragged loin-cloth with one leg. But he just sneered at my sign-language, slashed me painfully with his cane, and marched me off up-hill through the streets to the great palace of Antan’, which I now saw properly for the first time.
I wouldn’t have thought anything could have distracted my attention at such a time, but that palace did. How can I describe the effect of it, except by saying that it’s the biggest wooden building in the world? From its towering steepled roof to the ground is a hundred and twenty feet, and in between is a vast spread of arches and balconies and galleries – for all the world like a Venetian palazzo made of the most intricately-carved and coloured wood, its massive pillars consisting of single trunks more than one hundred feet long. The largest of them, I’m told, took five thousand men to lift, and they brought it from fifty miles away; all told, fifteen thousand died in building the place – but I guess that’s small beer to a Malagassy contractor working for royalty.
Even more amazing though, is the smaller palace beside it. It is covered entirely in tiny silver bells, so that when the sun is on it, you can’t even look, for the blinding glare. As the breeze changes, so does the volume of that perpetual tingling of a million silver tongues; it’s indescribably beautiful to see and hear, like something in a fairy-tale – and yet it housed the cruellest Gorgon on earth, for that’s where Ranavalona had her private apartments.
I’d little time to marvel, though, before we were inside the great hall of the main palace itself, with its soaring arched roof like a cathedral nave. It was thronged with courtiers bedecked in such a fantastic variety of clothing that it looked like a fancy-dress ball, with nothing but black guests. There were crinolines and saris, sarongs and state gowns, muslins and taffetas of every period and colour – I recall one spindly female in white silk with a powdered wig on her head à la Marie Antoinette, talking to another who seemed to be entirely hung in coloured glass beads. The contrast and confusion was bewildering: mantillas and loin-cloths, bare feet and high-heeled shoes, long gloves and barbaric feather headdresses – it would have been exotic but for the unfortunate fact that Malagassy women are d----d ugly, for the most part, tending to be squat and squashed, like black Russian peasants, if you can imagine. Mind you, I saw a lissom backside in a sari here and there, and a few pairs of plumptious bouncers hanging out of low corsages, and thought to myself, there’s a few here who’d repay care and attention – and they’d probably be glad of it, too, for a more sawn-off and runty collection than their menfolk I never did see. It’s curious that the male nobility are far poorer specimens than the common men; Dago blood somewhere, I suspect. They were got up as fantastically as the women, though, in the usual hotch-potch of uniforms, with knee breeches, buckled shoes, and even a stovepipe hat thrown in.
There was a nigger orchestra pumping away abominably somewhere, and the whole throng were chattering like magpies, as Malagassies always do, bowing and scraping and leering and flirting in the most grotesque caricature of polite society – I couldn’t help thinking of apes that I’d seen at the circus in childhood, decked out in human clothes. A white man in rags cut no ice at all, and no one spared me more than a glance as I was marched up a side staircase, along a short passage, and into a small ante-room. Here, to my astonishment, I was left alone; they shut the door on me, and that was that.
Steady, Flash, thinks I, what’s this? It looked an innocent room enough, overcrowded with artistically-carved native furniture, large pots containing reeds, some fine ornaments in ivory and ebony, and on the walls several prints depicting niggers in uniform which I wouldn’t have given house-room to, myself. I stood listening, and through a large muslin-screened inner window heard the murmur and music of the great hall; by standing on a table I could just peep over the sill and through the muslin observe the assembly below. My window was in a corner, and from beneath it a broad gallery ran clean across the top end of the hall, high above the crowd. There were a dozen Hova guardsmen in sarongs and helmets ranged along the balcony rail.
Somewhere deep in the palace a bell rang, and at once the chatter and music died, and the whole crowd below turned to stare up at the balcony. There was the wailing of what sounded like a native trumpet, and a figure stepped out on to the balcony almost directly beneath me – a stalwart black in a gold metal headdress and leopard-skin loin-cloth, with massive muscular arms stretched out before him, carrying a slender silver spear in ceremonial fashion.a The assembled cream of Malagassy society gave him a good hand, and as he stepped aside four young girls in flowered saris appeared, carrying a kind of three-sided tent of coloured silk, but with no roof to it.
Then, to the accompaniment of clashing cymbals and a low, sonorous chanting that made my hair stand on end, there came out a couple of old coves in black robes fringed with silver, swinging little packets on the ends of strings, but not making much of it; they stood to one side, and to a sudden thunderous yell from the crowd of “Manjaka! Manjaka!” four more wenches trooped out, carrying a purple canopy on four slender ivory poles. Beneath it walked a stately figure enveloped in a scarlet silk cloak, but I couldn’t see the face at all, for it was hidden by a tall sugar-loaf hat of golden straw, bound under the chin by a scarf. So this is Her Nibs, thinks I, and despite the warmth, I found myself shivering.
She paced slowly to the front of the balcony and the sycophantic mob beneath went wild, clapping and calling and stretching out their hands. Then she stepped back, the girls with the silk tent contraption carried it round her, shielding her from all curious eyes except the two that were goggling down, unsuspected, from above; I waited, breathless, and two more girls went in beside her, and slipped the cloak from her shoulders. And there she was, stark naked except for her ridiculous hat.
Well, even from above and through a muslin screen there was no doubt that she was female, and no need for stays to make the best of it, either; she stood like an ebony statue as the two wenches began to bathe her from bowls of water. Some vulgar lout grunted lasciviously, and realizing who it was I shrank back a trifle in sudden anxiety that I’d been overheard. They splashed her thoroughly, while I watched enviously, and then clapped the robe round her shoulders again. The screen was removed, and she took what looked like an inlaid ebony horn from one of her attendants and stepped forward to sprinkle the crowd. They fairly crowed with delight, and then she withdrew to a great shout of applause, and I scrambled down from my window thinking, by George, we’ve never seen little Vicky doing that from the balcony at Buck House – but then, she ain’t quite equipped the way this one is.
What I’d seen, you may care to know, was the public part of the annual ceremony of the Queen’s Bath. The private proceedings are less formal – although, mind you, I can speak with authority only for 1844, or as it is doubtless known in Malagassy court circles, Flashy’s year.
The procedure is simple. Her Majesty retires to her reception room in the Silver Palace, which is the most astonishing chamber, containing as it does a gilded couch of state, gold and silver ornaments in profusion, an enormous and luxurious bed, a piano with “Selections from Scarlatti” on the music stand, and off to one side, a sunken bath lined with mother-of-pearl; there are also pictures of Napoleon’s victories round the walls, between silk curtains. There she concludes the ceremony by receiving homage from various officials, who grovel out backward, and then, with several of her maids still in attendance, turns her attention to the last item on the agenda, the foreign castaway who has been brought in for her inspection, and who is standing with his bowels dissolving between two stalwart Hova guardsmen. One of her maids motions the poor fool forward, the guardsmen retire – and I tried not to tremble, took a deep breath, looked at her, and wished I hadn’t come.
She was still wearing the sugar-loaf hat, and the scarf framed features that were neither pretty nor plain. She might have been anywhere between forty and fifty, rather round-faced, with a small straight nose, a fine brow, and a short, broad-lipped mouth; her skin was jet black and plump37 – and then you met the eyes, and in a sudden chill rush of fear realized that all you had heard was true, and the horrors you’d seen needed no further explanation. They were small and bright and evil as a snake’s, unblinking, with a depth of cruelty and malice that was terrifying; I felt physical revulsion as I looked at them – and then, thank G-d, I had the wit to take a pace forward, right foot first, and hold out the two Mexican dollars in my clammy palm.
She didn’t even glance at them, and after a moment one of her girls scuttled forward and took them. I stepped back, right foot first, and waited. The eyes never wavered in their repellent stare, and so help me, I couldn’t meet them any longer. I dropped my gaze, trying feverishly to remember what Laborde had told me – oh, h--l, was she waiting for me to lick her infernal feet? I glanced down; they were hidden under her scarlet cloak; no use grubbing for ’em there. I stood, my heart thumping in the silence, noticing that the silk of her cloak was wet – of course, they hadn’t dried her, and she hadn’t a stitch on underneath – my stars, but it clung to her limbs in a most fetching way. My view from on high had been obscured, of course, and I hadn’t realized how strikingly endowed was the royal personage. I followed the sleek scarlet line of her leg and rounded hip, noted the gentle curve of waist and stomach, the full-blown poonts outlined in silk – my goodness, though, she was wet – catch her death …
One of the female attendants gave a sudden giggle, instantly smothered – and to my stricken horror I realized that my indecently torn and ragged trousers were failing to conceal my instinctive admiration of her majesty’s matronly charms – oh, J---s, you’d have thought quaking fear and my perilous situation would have banished randy reaction, but love conquers all, you see, and there wasn’t a d----d thing I could do about it. I shut my eyes and tried to think of crushed ice and vinegar, but it didn’t do the slightest good – I daren’t turn my back on royalty – had she noticed? H--l’s bells, she wasn’t blind – this was lèse-majesté of the most flagrant order – unless she took it as a compliment, which it was, ma’am, I assure you, and no disrespect intended, far from it …
I stole another look at her, my face crimson. Those awful eyes were still on mine; then, slowly, inexorably, her glance went down. Her expression didn’t change in the least, but she stirred on her couch – which did nothing to quell my ardour – and without looking away, muttered a guttural instruction to her maids. They fluttered out obediently, while I waited quaking. Suddenly she stood up, shrugged off the silk cloak, and stood there naked and glistening; I gulped and wondered if it would be tactful to make some slight advance – grabbing one of ’em, for instance … it would take both hands … better not, though; let royalty take precedence.
So I stood stock still for a full minute, while those wicked, clammy eyes surveyed me; then she came forward and brought her face close to mine, sniffing warily like an animal and gently rubbing her nose to and fro across my cheeks and lips. Starter’s gun, thinks I; one wrench and my breeches were a rag on the floor, I hooked into her buttocks and kissed her full on the mouth – and she jerked away, spitting and pawing at her tongue, her eyes blazing, and swung a hand at my face. I was too startled to avoid the blow; it cracked on my ear – I had a vision of those boiling pits – and then the fury was dying from her eyes, to be replaced by a puzzled look. (I had no notion, you see, that kissing was unknown on Madagascar; they rub noses, like the South Sea folk.) She put her face to mine again, touching my lips cautiously with her own; her mouth tasted of aniseed. She licked me tentatively, so I nuzzled her a moment, and then kissed her in earnest, and this time she entered into the spirit of the thing like a good ’un.
Then she reached down and led me across the room to the bath, undid her scarf and hat and tossed them aside, revealing long straight hair tied tight to her head, and heavy silver earrings that hung to her shoulders. She slipped into the bath, which was deep enough to swim in, and motioned me to follow, which I did, nearly bursting by this time. But she swam and played about in the water in a most provoking way, teasing and rubbing noses and kissing – but never a smile or a word or the least softening of those basilisk eyes – and then suddenly she clapped her long legs round me and we were away, rolling and plunging like d---ation, one moment on the surface, the next three feet under. She must have had lungs like bellows, for she could stay under an agonizing time, working away like a lecherous porpoise, and then surfacing for a gasp of air and down again for more ecstatic heaving on the bottom. Well, it was novel, and highly stimulating; the only time I’ve completed the carnal act while somersaulting with my nose full of water was in Ranavalona’s bath. Afterwards I clung to the edge, gasping, while she swam lazily up and down, turning those ugly, glinting eyes on me from time to time, with her face like stone.
Yet the most startling event was still to come. When she had got out of the bath and I had followed obediently, she crossed to the bed and disposed herself on it, contemplating me sullenly while I stood hesitant, wondering what to do next. I mean, usually one gives ’em a slap on the rump by way of congratulation, whistles up refreshments, and has a cosy chat, but I could guess this wasn’t her style. She just lay there stark, all black and shiny, staring at me while I tried to shiver nonchalantly, and then she grunted something in Malagassy and pointed to the piano. I explained, humbly, that I didn’t play; she stared some more, and three seconds later I was on the piano stool, my wet posterior clinging uncomfortably to the seat, picking out “Drink, Puppy Drink”, with one finger. My audience didn’t begin to throw things, so I ventured on the other half of my repertoire, “God Save the Queen”, but a warning growl sent me skittering back to “Drink, Puppy Drink” once more. I played it for about ten minutes, conscious of that implacable stare on the back of my neck, and then by way of variety began to sing the verse. I heard the bed creak, and desisted; another growl, and I was giving tongue lustily again, and the Silver Palace of Antananarivo re-echoed to:
“Here’s to the fox
With his den among the rocks,
And here’s to the trail that we follo-o-ow!
And here’s to the hound
With his nose upon the ground,
An’ merrily we’ll whoop and holl-o-o-o!”
And then the chorus, with vim – it’s a rousing little ditty, as you probably know, and I bellowed it until I was hoarse. Just as I was thinking my voice would crack, blowed if she didn’t glide up at my elbow, glowering without expression from my face to the keys; what the d---l, thinks I, in for a penny, in for a pound, so while pounding away with one hand I pulled her on to the stool with the other, squeezing lustfully and bawling “He’ll grow into a hound, so we’ll pass the bottle round”, and after a moment’s impassive staring she began to accompany me in a most disconcerting way. This time, though, we repaired to the bed for the serious business – and I received a mighty shock, for as I was waiting for her to assume the supine position she suddenly picked me up bodily (I’m six feet and upwards of thirteen stone), flung me down, and began galloping me with brutal abandon, grunting and snarling and even drumming on me with her fists. It was like being assailed by a horny gorilla, but I gather she enjoyed it – not that she smiled, or gave maidenly sighs, but at the end she stroked her nose against mine and growled a Malagassy word in my ear several times … “Zanahary … zanaharyb …” which I later discovered was complimentary.
So that was my first encounter with Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar, the most horrible woman I’ve ever met, bar none. Unfortunately, it was by no means the last, for although she never ceased to regard me with that Gorgon stare, she took an unquenchable fancy to me. Possibly it was my piano-playing,38 for normally she went through lovers like a rat through cheese, and I was in constant dread in the weeks that followed that she’d tire of me – as she had of Laborde and several hundred others. He had merely been discarded, but as often as not her used-up beaux were subjected to the dreadful ordeal of the tanguin test, and then sent to the pits, or dismembered, or sewn up in buffalo hides with only their heads out and hung up to rot.
No, pleasuring Queenie wasn’t a trade you could settle to, and to make it worse she was a brutally demanding lover. I don’t mean that she enjoyed inflicting pain on her men, like dear Lola with her hairbrush, or the elfin Mrs Mandeville of Mississippi, who wore spurred riding boots to bed, or Aunt Sara the Mad Bircher of the Steppes – my, I’ve known some little turtle doves in my time, haven’t I just? No, Ranavalona was simply an animal, coarse and insatiable, and you ached for days afterwards. I suffered a cracked rib, a broken finger, and G-d knows how many strains and dislocations in my six months as stallion-en-titre, which gives you some idea.
But enough of romance; suffice to say that my initiation was successful, and I was taken on the strength of her establishment as a foreign slave who might be useful not only as a paramour but also, in view of my army experience, as a staff officer and military adviser. There was no question about this in the minds of the court officials who assigned me to my duties – no thought that I might demur, or wish to be sent home, or count myself anything but fortunate to be so honoured by them. I had come to Madagascar, and here I would stay until I died, that was flat. It was their national philosophy: Madagascar was the world, and perfect, and there could be no greater treachery than to think otherwise.
I got an inkling of this the same afternoon, when I had been dismissed the royal presence, considerably worn and shaken, and was conducted to an interview with the Queen’s private secretary. He proved to be a jolly little black butterball in a blue cutaway coat with brass buttons, and plaid trousers, who beamed at me from the depths of an enormous collar and floored me by crying:
“Mr Flashman, what pleasure to see you! I being Mr Fankanonikaka, very personal and special secretary to her majesty, Queen Ranavalona, the Great Cloud Shading the World, ain’t I just, though? Not above half, I don’t think.” He rubbed his little black paws, chortling at my dumbstruck look, and went on: “How I speak English much perfect, so as to astonish you, I being educated in London, at Highgate School, Highgate, confounded in year of Christ 1565, seven years reigning Good Queen Bess, I say. Please sitting there exactly, and attending then to me. I being an old boy.” And he bowed me to a chair.
I was learning to accept anything in this extraordinary country – and why not? In my time I’ve seen an Oxford don commanding a slave-ship, a professor of Greek skinning mules on the Sacramento stage run, and a Welshman in a top hat leading a Zulu impi – even a Threadneedle Street nigger acting as secretary39 to the Queen of Madagascar ain’t too odd alongside that lot. But hearing English – even his amazing brand of the language – took me so aback that I almost committed the indiscretion of asking how the blazes I was to escape from this madhouse – and that could have been fatal in a country where one wrong word usually means death by torture. Fortunately I remembered Laborde’s warning in time, and asked cautiously how he knew my name.
“Ha-ha, we are knowing all manner, no humbuggery or gammon, please,” cries he, his fat face shining like boot polish. “You coming ashore from ship of Suleiman Usman, we speaking of him maybe, finding much.” He cocked his head, button eyes considering me. “You telling me now of personal life yourself, where coming from, what trade, so to speak, my old covey.”
So I did – at least, that I was English, an army officer, and how I’d fallen into Usman’s hands. Again, remembering Laborde, I didn’t mention Elspeth, although I was consumed with anxiety about her. He nodded pleasantly, and then said:
“You coming Madagascar, you knowing someone here, right enough?”
I assured him he was wrong, and he stuck out a fat finger and says: “M’sieur Laborde.”
“Who’s he?” says I, playing innocent, and he grinned and cries:
“M’sieur Laborde talking you in slave place, hitting you punch in face, but then coming you cheep-cheep quiet, with dollars for give Queen, razor for shaving, how peculiaring, ain’t it?” He giggled and waved a hand. “But not mattering, since you being old boy, Laborde old boy and European chum, my stars, much shake hand hollo old fellow. I understanding, being old boy also, Highgate like. And not mattering, since Queen, may she live thousand year, liking you so much. Good gracious times much! Jig-a-jig-jig and jolly muttons!” cries this jackanapes, making obscene gestures. “Much pleasure, hurrah. Maybe you slave five, six year, pleasing Queen” – his eyes rounded eagerly – “perhaps giving boy child with rogerings, what? Anyway, five year, you not being lost, no more, being free, marrying any fine lady, being great person like me, or someone else. All from Queen liking.” He beamed happily; he had my future nicely in hand, it seemed.
“But you slave now – lost!” he added sternly. “Must working hard, not only jig-a-jig. Soldier working, much needed, keeping army best in world, spit and polish, d---e, no mistake. You liking that, staying Madagascar, making fine colonel, maybe sergeant-major, shouting soldiers, left-right-left, pick ’em up, farting about like Horse Guards, quick march, just fine style. I being Highgate, long time, seeing guns Hyde Park, when little boy, at school.” The smile faded from his face, and he looked crestfallen. “Little black boy, seeing soldiers, big guns, horses, tantara and galloping.” He sniffed and knuckled his eye. “In London. Still raining, not half? Much tuck-shop, footballing, jolly times.” He sighed. “I speaking Queen, making you great soldier, knowing latest dodges, keeping army smart like Hector and Lysander, bang-up tip-top, hey? Yes, I speaking Queen.”
You may say that was how I joined the Malagassy army, and if Mr Fankanonikaka was a dooced odd recruiting agent he was also an uncommon efficient one. Before night fell I was on the ration strength, with the unique rank of sergeant-general, which I suspect was Fankanonikaka’s own invention, and not inappropriate as it turned out. They quartered me in two rooms at the back of the main palace, with an orderly who spoke a little French (and spied on me night and day), and there I sat down and wept, with my head spinning, trying to figure out what to do next.
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 93rd, 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 apologize. 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 Stare at me, which was disagreeable, although they seemed to be in some awe, and I decided that 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 RH 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 HM 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.]
a This spear was known as the “Hater of Lies”.
b Supernatural, divine; (colloq.) wonderful.