It didn’t stir for long, of course; it never does. You hear news, or a rumour, or an enigmatic remark like Laborde’s, and your imagination takes wing with wild optimism – and then nothing happens, and your spirits plunge, only to revive for a spell, and then down again, and up and down, while time slips away almost unnoticed. I’m glad I ain’t one of these cool hands who can take a balanced view, for any logical appraisal of my situation in Madagascar would have driven me to suicide. As it was, my alternate hopes and glooms were probably my salvation, as the months went by.
For it was months – six of them, although looking back it’s hard to believe it was more than a few weeks. Memory may hold on to horrid incidents, but it’s a great obliterator of dull, protracted misery, especially if you help it with heavy drinking. There’s a fine potent aniseed liquor on Madagascar, and I sopped it up like a country parson, so between sleep and stupor I don’t suppose I was in my wits more than half the time.
And as I’ve remarked, when needs must, you just carry on with the work in hand, so I drilled and bullied my troops, and attended the Queen when called upon, and warily enlarged my circle of acquaintances among the senior military, and cultivated Mr Fankanonikaka, and found out everything I could that might serve when the time came – if it ever did … but it must, it must! For while with every passing week my servitude in Madagascar began to seem more natural and inevitable, there would be moments of sudden violent reaction, as when I’d just seen Elspeth, or been appalled by some new atrocity of the Queen’s, or the musky wood and dust smell grew unbearable in my nostrils, and then there was nothing for it but to walk out alone on the parade ground before Antan’ and stare at the distant mountains, and tell myself fiercely that Lord’s was still over there somewhere with Felix bowling his slow lobs while the crowd clapped and the rooks cawed in the trees; there would be green fields, and English rain, parsons preaching, yokels ploughing, children playing, cads swearing, virgins praying, squires drinking, whores rogering, peelers patrolling – that was home, and there must be a road to it.
So I kept my eye skinned and learned … that Tamitave, while it had taken days to cover on the slave-march, was a bare hundred and forty miles away; that foreign ships put in about twice a month – for Fankanonikaka, whose office I visited a good deal, used to receive notice of them … the Samson of Toulon, the Culebra of Havana, the Alexander Hamilton of New York, the Mary Peters of Madras – I saw the names, and my heart would stop. They might only anchor in the roads, to exchange cargo – but if I could time my bolt from Antan’ precisely, and reach Tamitave when a foreign vessel was in … I’d swum ashore, I could swim aboard – then let ’em try to get me on their cursed land again! How to reach Tamitave, though, ahead of pursuit? The army had some horses, poor screws, but they’d do – one to ride, three to lead for changes … oh, G-d, Elspeth! I must get her away, too – mustn’t I? … unless I escaped and came back for her in force – by Jove, Brooke would jump at the chance of crusading against Ranavalona – if Brooke was still alive – no, I couldn’t face another of his campaigns … D--n Elspeth! And so my thoughts raced, only to return to the dusty heat and grind of Antan’, and the misery of existence.
There were some slight blessings, though. I became interested in my army work, and enjoyed putting the troops through their manoeuvres, teaching them complicated wheels in line, slow marches, and so forth; I became quite friendly with senior men like Rakohaja, who began more and more to treat me as an equal, and even entertained me at their homes, the patronizing monkeys. Fankanonikaka noted this and was pleased.
“Doing much fine, what? Dining nibs, much grub, happy boozing like h--l, tip-top society, how-de-do so pleased to meet you, hey? I seeing you Count Rakohaja, Baron Andriama, Chancellor Vavalana, other best swells. Watching Vavalana careful, however, sly dog, peeping or tittle-tattling for Queen. So looking sharp, that’s the ticket for soup, rotten rascal Vavalana, him hating old boy Fankanonikaka, hating you too, much jealousing you mounting Queen, happying her much boom-boom not above half, maybe getting boy child I don’t know, Vavalana not liking that, mischief you if possible. Watch out him, I telling you. Meantime you pleasing Queen all while, hearty lovings, she admiring, ain’t she just, though, ha-ha?”
And the dirty little rascal would tap his pug nose and chortle. I wasn’t so sure myself, for as time went by Ranavalona’s demands on me slowly diminished, and while it was a relief in one way – for at first, when I had been summoned to the palace almost every day on her majesty’s service, it was so exhausting I daren’t wave my hand for fear I floated away – it was worrying, too. Was she tiring of me? It was a dreadful thought, but I was reassured by the fact that she still seemed to like my company, and even began to talk to me.
Not that it was elevating chat – how were the troops? was the ration of jakaa sufficient? why did I never wear a hat? were my quarters comfortable? why did I never kill soldiers by way of punishment? had I ever seen the English queen? You must imagine her, either sitting on her throne in a European gown, with one of her girls fanning her, or reclining on her bed in her sari, propped up on one elbow, slowly grunting out her questions, fingering her long earring and never taking those black unblinking eyes from mine. Unnerving work it was, for I was in constant dread that I’d say something to offend; it didn’t help that I never discovered how informed or educated she was, for she volunteered no information or opinions, only questions, and no answers seemed either to please or displease her. She would just brood silently, and then ask something else, in the same flat, muttered French.
It was impossible to guess what she thought, or even how her mind worked. Well, to give you an example, I was alone with her one day, standing by obediently while she sat on the bed gazing at Manjakatsiroa (her bottle gourd) and mumbling to herself, when she looked up at me slowly and growled:
“Does this dress please you?”
It was a white silk sarong, in fact, and became her not too badly, but of course I went into raptures about it. She listened sullenly, fidgeted a moment, and then got up, stripped the thing off, and says:
“It is yours.”
Well, it wasn’t my style at all, but of course I grovelled gratefully and said I couldn’t do it justice, but I’d treasure it forever, make it my household idol, in fact, splendid idea … she paid not the slightest attention but sauntered over, bare as the back of my hand, to her great mirror and stared at herself. Then she turned to me, slapped her belly thoughtfully two or three times, put her hands on her hips, stared bleakly at me, and says:
“Do you like fat women?”
If the hairs on my neck crawled, d’you wonder? For if you can think of a tactful answer, I couldn’t. I stood tongue-tied, the sweat starting out on me as visions of boiling pits and crucifixion flitted across my mind, and I couldn’t restrain a moan of despair – which I immediately had the mother-wit to turn into a lustful growl as I advanced on her, grappling amorously and praying that actions would speak louder than words. Since she didn’t press the point, I gather my answer was the right one.
Another anxiety, of course, during those long weeks, was that she would get word of Elspeth, or that my dear little wife herself would get restive and commit some folly which would attract attention. She didn’t, though, and on the occasional visits I was allowed to make to the Prince’s palace, she seemed as cheerful as ever – I still don’t understand this, although I’ll admit that Elspeth has an unusually serene and stupid disposition which can make the best of anything. She bemoaned the fact that we were kept apart, of course, and never ceased to ask me when we would be going home, but since we were never left alone together there was no opportunity to tell her the fearful truth, and it would have served no good purpose anyway. So I jollied her along, and she seemed content enough.
It was on the last visit I paid her that I saw the first signs of distress, and guessed it had at last penetrated into that beautiful fat head that Madagascar wasn’t quite the holiday she imagined. She was pale, and looked as though she’d been crying, but for once we had no opportunity of a private tête-á-tête, for the occasion was a tea-party given by the Princess, and I was held in military small talk by the Prince and Rakohaja throughout. Only when I was leaving did I have a brief word with Elspeth, and she didn’t say much, except to grip my hand tight, and repeat her eternal question about going home. I couldn’t guess what had upset her, but I could see the tears weren’t far away, so I startled her out of her glooms in the only way I know how.
“What’s this, old girl?” says I, looking thunderous. “Have you been flirting with that young Prince, then?”
She looked blank, but her dismals vanished at once. “Why, Harry, what can you mean? What a question to ask—”
“Is it, though?” says I grimly. “I don’t know – I can see he has more than an eye to you, the presumptuous young pup – yes, and you ain’t discouraging him exactly, are you? I’m not well pleased, my lady-just because I can’t be here all the time, is no reason for you to go setting your cap at other fellows – oh, yes, I saw you fluttering at him when he spoke to you – and a married man, too. Anyway,” I whispered, “you’re far too pretty for him.”
She was pink by this time – not with guilty confusion, mark you, but with pleasure at the thought that she’d stirred the passion in yet another male breast. If there was one thing that could divert the little trollop’s attention, it was male admiration; she’d have stood preening herself in the track of a steam road roller if someone had so much as winked at her. I saw by her blushing protests how delighted she was, and that her unhappiness – whatever it was – had been quite forgotten. But now I was being called to the Prince, with Rakohaja at his elbow.
“No doubt we shall see you tonight, sergeant-general, at her majesty’s ball,” says his highness, and it seemed to me his voice was unduly shrill, and his smile a trifle glassy. “It is to be a very splendid occasion.”
I knew about the Queen’s dances and parties, of course, although I’d never been to one. Being officially a slave, you see, however much authority I had in the army, I occupied a curious social position. But Rakohaja put my doubt at rest.
“Sergeant-General Flashman will be present, highness.” He turned his big scarred face to stare at me. “I shall bring him in my own party.”
“Excellent,” twitters the Prince, looking everywhere but at me. “Excellent. That will be … ah … most agreeable.” I bowed myself away, wondering what this portended. I didn’t have long to wait to find out.
The Queen’s galas were famous affairs. They took place every two or three months, on the anniversaries of her birth, accession, marriage – or the jubilee of her first massacre, I shouldn’t wonder – and were attended by the flower of Malagassy society, all in their fanciest costumes, crowding into the great courtyard before the palace, where they danced, ate, drank, and revelled all through the night. Proper orgies, from all I’d heard, so I was ready prompt enough, in full fig, when Rakohaja came for me early in the evening.
There was a great crowd of the commonalty waiting at the palace gates as we passed through, peeping to get a look at their betters, who were already whooping it up to some tune. The whole vast courtyard was ablaze with Chinese lanterns slung on chains, potted palms and even whole trees and flower-beds had been brought in for decoration, the arches of the palace front were twined with rammage and cords of tinsel, a fountain had been specially constructed in the centre of the yard, the water playing over glass jars in which were imprisoned clusters of the famous Malagassy fire-flies – brilliant little emerald green jewels which winked and fluttered through the spray with dazzling effect.
Among the trees and arbours which lined the square long tables were set, piled with delicacies, especially the local beef rice which is consumed in honour of the Queen – don’t ask me why, because it’s mere coarse belly fodder. The military band were on hand, pounding away at “Auprès de ma blonde”, and getting most of the notes wrong; I noticed they were all half-tipsy, their black faces grinning sweatily and their uniform collars undone, while their bandmaster, resplendent in tartan dressing-gown and bowler hat, was weaving about cackling and losing his silver-rimmed spectacles. He grovelled on the ground hunting for them and waving his baton crazily, but the band played on undaunted, falling off their seats, and the row was deafening.
Mind you, if they were drunk, you could see where they’d got the idea. There must have been several hundred of the upper crust present already, each one with about a gallon of raw spirit aboard to judge by their antics; I counted four fellows in the fountain when we arrived, and any number staggering about; the greater number were standing unsteadily in groups of anything from six to sixty, making polite conversation at the tops of their voices, yelling and back-slapping, seizing glasses from the loaded trays which the servants passed among them, bawling toasts, spilling liquor all over each other, apologizing elaborately, tumbling down, and acting quite civilized on the whole.
There was the usual fantastic display of fashion – men in Arab, Turkish, Spanish, and European costume, or mixtures of all of them, women in every conceivable colour of sarong, sari, elaborate gown, and party frock. There was abundance of uniform, too, velvet, brocade, superfine, and broadcloth, with crusts of silver and gold braid, but I noticed there was more of a Spanish note than usual – black swallow-tails, cummerbunds, funnel pants, and sashes among the men, mantillas, high heels, flounced skirts, lace fans, and flowers among the women. The reason, I discovered, was that it was Rakota’s coming of age, and since he favoured dago fashion the revellers were decked out in his honour. The heat from that shouting, swaying, celebrating throng came at you like a wave, with the band crowning the bedlam of noise with its incessant pounding.
“The dinner has not yet begun,” says Rakohaja to me. “Shall we anticipate the others?” He led the way under the trees, where the waiters stood, most of ’em pretty flushed, and waved me and his aides to chairs. There was fine china and glass on the tables, but Rakohaja simply uncorked a bottle, pulled up his sleeve, scooped up a huge handful of beef rice, and proceeded to stuff it into his face, taking occasional pulls of liquor to help it down. Not wishing to be thought ignorant, I used my fingers on a whole chicken, and the aides, of course, ploughed in like cannibals.
Half-way through our collation the more sober of the palace attendants cleared the guests from the main square, and there was terrific plunging, tripping, swearing, and profuse apologizing as they staggered to seat themselves at the surrounding buffets. Whole tables were overturned, chaps fell into the undergrowth, women shrieked tipsily and had to be helped, crockery crashed and glass shattered, all to the accompaniment of cries of: “Ah, mam’selle, pardon my absurd clumsiness,” “Permit me, sir, to assist you to your feet,” “Holá, garçon, place a chair beneath madame – beneath her posterior, you clumsy rascal!” “Delightful, is it not, Mam’selle Bomfomtabellilaba; such select company, exquisite taste and decoration,” “Forgive me, madame, I am about to vomit a while,” and so forth. Eventually, to a chorus of cries, smashing, retching, and polite whispers, they were all down, at various levels, and the cabaret began.
This consisted of a hundred dancing girls, in white saris, with green fire-flies bound in their hair, undulating in perfect time across the courtyard to weird nigger music; ugly little squirts for the most part, but drilled like guardsmen, and I’ve never seen a pantomime chorus to equal them. They swayed and weaved among each other like clockwork in the most complex patterns, and the mob, in the intervals of stuffing and swilling, rose to them in drunken appreciation. Flowers and ribbons and even plates of food were thrown, fellows clambered on the tables to applaud and yell, the ladies scattered change from their purses, and in the middle of it the military band regained consciousness as one man and began to play “Auprès de ma blonde” again. The bandmaster fell into the fountain to prolonged cheering, one of the aides at our table subsided face down in a dish of curry, General Rakohaja lit a cheroot, about twenty chaps ran in among the dancing-girls and began an impromptu waltz, the Prince and Princess made their entrance in sedans draped with cloth-of-gold and borne shoulder-high by Hova guardsmen, the whole assembly raved and staggered in loyal greeting, and at the next table a slant-eyed yellow gal with slim bare shoulders glanced lingeringly in my direction, lowered her eyelids demurely, and stuck out her tongue at me behind her fan.
Before I could respond with a courtly inclination of my head there was a sudden blare of trumpets, drowning out the hubbub; it rose in a piercing fanfare, and as it died away the entire congregation staggered to its feet with a renewed clattering of overturned chairs, breaking of dishes, subdued swearing and apology, and stood more or less silent, leaning on each other and breathing stertorously.
On the centre of the first balcony of the palace, lanterns were blazing, guardsmen were forming, and a brazen-lunged major-domo was shouting commands. Handmaidens appeared bearing the striped umbrella, cymbals clashed, a couple of idol-keepers scurried out with their little bundles, the Silver Spear was borne forward, and here came the founder of the feast, the guest of honour, the captain of the side, imperial in her crimson gown and golden crown, to be greeted by a roar of acclamation which beat everything that had gone before. The wave of adulation beat up and echoed against the towering walls, “Manjaka, manjaka! Ranavalona, Ranavalona!” as she moved slowly forward to the balcony, her stately progress marred only by the obvious fact that she, too, was drunker than David’s sow.
She swayed dangerously as she stood looking down, a couple of guardsmen lending a discreet elbow on either side, and then the band, in a triumph of instinct over intoxication, burst into the national anthem, “May the Queen Live a Thousand Years”, rendered with heroic enthusiasm by the diners, most of whom seemed to be accompanying themselves by beating spoons on plates.
It ended in a furore of cheering, and her majesty retired about five seconds, I’d say, before collapsing in a heap. We hallooed her out of sight, and now that the loyal toast was drunk, so to speak, the party began in earnest. There was a concerted rush into the square, in which I found myself carried along, willy-nilly, and with the band surpassing itself, a frenzied polka was danced; I found myself partnering an enormously fat hippo of a woman in crinoline, who used me as a battering-ram to drive a way through the press, screaming like a steam whistle as she did so.
I may say that in keeping with the spirit of the evening, I had taken a fairish cargo of drink aboard myself, and it was making me feel reckless, for I kept craning over the heads of the throng in the hope of a sight of the yellow gal who had been eyeing me. Which was madness, of course, but even the thought of a jealous Ranavalona ain’t proof against several pints of aniseed liquor and Malagassy champagne – besides, after months of galloping royalty I was crying out for a change, and that slender charmer would supply it splendidly – there she was, with a frog-like black partner clinging to her for support; she caught my glance as the dance swept her past and opened her eyes invitingly at me.
It was the work of a moment to kick my partner’s massive legs from under her and thrust her squawking under the feet of the prancing throng; I fought my way to the sidelines, scooping the yellow gal out of her partner’s drunken embrace en route, and he blundered on blindly while I bore off the prize with one arm round her lissom waist. She was shrieking with laughter as I swept her into the undergrowth – it was bedlam in there, too, for it seemed that the accepted way of sitting out a dance in Antan’ was to crawl into the bushes and fornicate; half the guests appeared to be there before us, black bottoms everywhere, but I found a clear space and was just settling down, choking lustfully in the waves of scent which my lady affected, when some brute kicked me in the ribs, and there was Rakohaja standing over us.
I was about to d--n his eyes heartily, but he just jerked his head and moved behind a tree, and since my yellow gal chose that moment to be sick, I lost no time in joining him, cursing my luck just the same. I was pretty unsteady on my feet, but I realized that he was cold sober; the lean black face was grim and steady, and there was something about the way he glanced either side, at the hullabaloo of the dance and the dim forms grunting and gasping in the shadows about us, that made me check my angry protest. He drew on his cheroot a moment, then, pitching it away, he took my arm and ushered me under the trees, along a narrow path, and so by a dimly-lighted passage into a little open garden space, which I guessed must be to the side of the palace proper.
It was moonlight, and the little space was full of shadows; I was about to demand to know what the dooce this was all about when I realized that there were at least two men half-hidden in the gloom, but Rakohaja paid them no attention. He crossed to a little summer-house, with a chink of light showing beneath its door, and tapped. I stood trying to get my head clear, suddenly scared; faintly in the distance I could hear the sounds of music and drunken revelry, and then the door was opened, and I was being ushered inside, blinking in the lantern-light as I stared round, panic mounting in my throat.
There were four men seated there, looking at me. To my left, in dark shirt, breeches, and boots, his face vulpine in the lantern-ray, was Laborde; next to him, solemn for once, his fat chops framed in his high collar, was Fankanonikaka; to the right, slimly elegant in his full court dress, was one of the young Malagassy nobles whom I knew by sight, although I’d hardly spoken to him, Baron Andriama. And in the centre, his handsome young face tense and strained, was Prince Rakota himself. His glance went past me as the door closed.
“No one saw you?” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“No one,” says Rakohaja behind me. “It is safe to begin.”
I doubted that – I really did. Drunk or not, I can smell a conspiracy when it’s pushed under my nose, and the presence of royalty and several of Madagascar’s most eminent citizens notwithstanding, I knew at once that there was mischief brewing here, but Rakohaja’s hand was on my shoulder, firmly guiding me to a seat, and any lingering doubt was dispelled as the Prince nodded to Laborde, who addressed me.
“There is very little time,” says he, “so I shall be brief. Do you wish to return to England, in safety, with your wife?”
The honest answer to that was high treason, and the knowledge must have shown in my face, for little Fankanonikaka broke in quickly; it was a sign of his agitation that he spoke, not in fluent French, but in his bastard English.
“Not frightening, no alarms, all’s well, Flashman. Friends here, liking you, telling truth, like old boys, ain’t we?
If the Queen’s own son, and her secretary and most trusted minister were in it – whatever it was – there could be no point in lying.
“Yes,” says I, and the Prince sighed with relief, and broke into a torrent of Malagassy, but Laborde cut him short.
“Pardon, highness, we must not delay.” He turned to me again. “The time has come to depose the Queen. All of us whom you see here are agreed on that. We are not alone; there are others, trusted friends, who are in the plot with us. We have a plan – simple, effective, and involving no bloodshed, by which her majesty will be removed from power, and his highness crowned in her place. He will give you his royal word, that in return for your faithful service in this, he will set you and your wife at liberty, and return you to your homeland.” He paused; his words had come out in a swift, incisive rush, but now he spoke slowly. “Will you join us?”
Could it be a trap? Some d---lish device of Ranavalona’s to test my loyalty – she was fiend enough to be capable of it. Laborde’s face said nothing; Fankanonikaka was nodding at me, as though willing me to agree. I glanced at the Prince, and the almost wistful expression in the fine dark eyes convinced me – nearly. I was sober enough now, and as frightened as any decent coward has any right to be; it might be dangerous to agree, but just the feel of Rakohaja’s grim presence at my elbow told me it would be downright fatal to refuse.
“What d’you want me to do?” I said. For the life of me, I couldn’t see why they needed me at all, unless they wanted me to strangle the black slut in her bath – the mind shuddered at the thought – no, it couldn’t be that – no bloodshed, Laborde had said—
“We need someone,” Laborde went on, as though he’d been reading my mind, “who is in the Queen’s confidence, entirely above suspicion, yet with the power so to dispose of the armed forces that they will be unable to protect her. Someone who can ensure that when the moment comes, her Hova guard regiment will not be able to intervene. Those guards within the palace can be dealt with easily – provided there is no reinforcement to assist them. That is the key to the whole plan. And you hold the key.”
So many thoughts and terrors were jumbling in my mind by now that I couldn’t give them coherent utterance for a moment. The prospect of freedom – of escape from that monstrous Poppaea and her ghastly country – I shivered with excitement at the thought … but Laborde must be crazy, for what could I do about her infernal soldiers? – I might be G-d Almighty on the drill-ground, telling them where to put their clodhopping feet, but I’d no authority beyond that. Their plot might be A1, and I was all for it, provided I was safe out of harm’s way – but the thought of doing anything! One hint of suspicion in those terrible eyes—
“How can I do that?” I stuttered. “I mean, I’ve no power. General Rakohaja here, he could order—”
“Not possible, Queen not liking, all thinking bad of General, chop undoubtedly—” Fankanonikaka waved his hands, and Rakohaja’s deep voice sounded behind me.
“If I, or any other noble, attempted to move the Hova Guards more than a mile from the city, the Queen’s suspicions would be instantly aroused. And I do not have to tell you what follows on her suspicions. It has been tried, once before, and General Betimseraba lingered in agony for days, without arms or legs or eyes, hanging in a buffalo skin at Ambohipotsy. He was plotting, as we are, but not so carefully. He forgot that the Queen has spies in every corner – spies that even Fankanonikaka does not know about. Yet all he did was try to detach two companies of the guard to Tamitave. Nothing was proved – but he failed the tanguin – and died.”
“But … but – I can’t move the Guards—”
“You have done so, twice already.” It was Andriama, speaking for the first time. “Did you not give them training marches, one of two days, the other of three? Nothing was said; the Queen was undisturbed. What would excite immediate suspicion, if done by a noble of whom the Queen is jealous – and she is insanely jealous of all of us – may be easily accomplished by the sergeant-general, who is only a slave, and well beloved by the Queen.”
Fankanonikaka was nodding eagerly; his lips seemed to be framing the words “jig-a-jig-a-jig”. I was going faint at the thought of the risk I’d already run, quite unawares.
“Don’t you understand?” says Laborde. “Don’t you see – from the moment I saw you in the slave-market, months ago, we have been scheming, Fankanonikaka and I, to bring you to the position where you could do this thing? The Queen trusts you – because she has no reason to suspect you, who are only a lost foreigner. She thinks of you only as the slave who drills her troops – and as a lover. You know how cautiously we have proceeded – so that no hint of suspicion could attach to you; his highness has kept your wife in safety, even beyond the eyes and ears of his mother’s spies. We have waited and waited – oh, long before you came to Madagascar. This is not the first time we have plotted in secret—”
“She is mad!” the Prince burst out. “You know she is mad – and terrible – a woman of blood! She is my mother – and … and …” He was shaking, twisting his hands together. “I do not seek the throne for greed, or for power! I do it to save this country – to save all of us, before she destroys us utterly, or brings down the vengeance of the world upon us! And she will – she will! The Powers will not stand by forever!” He stared from Laborde to Rakohaja and back again. “You know it! We all know it!”
I couldn’t fathom this, until Laborde explained.
“You are not alone, Flashman. Only last month a brig named the Marie Laure was driven ashore near Tamitave; her master, one Jacob Heppick, an American, was taken and sold into slavery, like you. I had him bought, through friends of mine—” He snorted suddenly. “There are five European slaves whom I have bought secretly this year, to save them from worse; castaways, unfortunates, like you and your wife. They are hidden with my friends. But there have been inquiries from their governments – inquiries which the Queen has answered with insults and threats. She has even been foolish enough to abuse the few foreign traders who put in here – men have been taken from their vessels, put to forced labour, virtually enslaved. How long will France and England and America endure this?
“Even now” – he leaned forward, tapping my knee – “there is a British warship in Tamitave roads, whose commander has sent protests to the Queen. She will reject them, as she always does – and burn another hundred Christians alive to show her contempt of foreigners! How long before that one British warship is a squadron, landing an army to march on Antan’ and pull her from her throne? Does she think London and Paris will endure her forever?”
And what the d---l, I nearly burst out, is wrong with that? I never heard such splendid stuff in all my life – G-d, to think of British regiments and blue-jackets storming into her beastly capital, blowing her lousy Hova rascals to blazes, stringing her up, with any luck – and then it occurred to me that these Malagassy gentlemen might not view the prospect with quite as much enthusiasm. They wouldn’t relish being another British or French dominion; no, but let good King Rakota mount the throne, and behave like a civilized being, and the Powers would be happy enough to leave him and his country alone. So that was why they were in such a sweat to get rid of mama, before she provoked an invasion. But why should Laborde care – he wasn’t a Malagassy? No, but he was a conniving Frog, and he didn’t want the Union Jack over Antan’ any more than the others did. I wasn’t in the political service for nothing, you know.
“She will destroy us!” Rakota cries again. “She will bring us to war – and in her madness there is no horror she will not—”
“No, highness,” says Rakohaja. “She will not – for we will not let her. This time we shall succeed.”
“You understand,” says Laborde, eyeing me, “what is to be done? You must send the Guards on a march to the Ankay, a mere thirty miles away. Nothing more than that. A training march, lasting three days, under their subordinate commanders, as usual.”
“That will leave the Teklave and Antaware regiments at Antan’,” says Rakohaja. “They will do nothing; their generals will be with us as soon as our coup is seen to be successful.”
“We shall strike on the second night after the Guards have gone,” says Andriama. “I shall be in attendance on the Queen. I shall have thirty men in the palace. At a given signal they will take the Queen prisoner, and dispose of her guards within the palace, if that is necessary. General Rakohaja will summon the commanders of the lesser regiments, and with Mr Fankanonikaka will proclaim the new King. It will be done within an hour – and when word of the coup reaches the Hova Guards at Ankay, it will be too late. The enthusiasm of the people will ensure our success—”
“They will rally to me,” says Rakota earnestly. “They will see why I do this thing, that I will be a liberator, and—”
“Yes, highness,” says Rakohaja, “you may trust us to see to all that.”
I couldn’t help noticing that they used Rakota pretty offhand, for their future monarch; who would rule Madagascar, I couldn’t help wondering? But that was small beer – my mind was racing over this thunderclap that they’d burst on me. They weren’t laggard conspirators, these lads, and I’d hardly had time to get my breath. They had it all pat – but, by jingo, it was an appalling risk! Suppose something went wrong – as it had done before, apparently? The mere thought of the vengeance Ranavalona would take set my innards quivering – and I’d be in the middle of the stew, too. I could have wept at the thought that there was a British warship, this very minute, not four days’ ride away to the eastward. Was there any way I could – no, that wasn’t on the cards. Suppose Laborde could bring it off? Suppose the Queen got wind of it? She had spies – I even found myself looking at Fankanonikaka, and wondering. Who knew – she might have penetrated this conspiracy already – she might be gloating up yonder, biding her time. I thought of those awful pits, and the fellow screaming before her throne, with his arm parboiled …
“Then you are with us?” says Laborde, and I realized they were all staring at me – Fankanonikaka, round-eyed, eager but scared; the Prince almost appealing, Andriama and Rakohaja grimly, Laborde with his head back, weighing me. In the silence of the little summer-house I could still hear, faintly, the sounds of the distant music. There was a foolish, useless question in my mind – but funk that I was, I had to ask it, although the answer wouldn’t settle my terrors a bit.
“You’re sure the Queen doesn’t suspect already?” says I. “I’ve heard of thirty men who’ll do the thing – how d’ye know there isn’t a spy among ’em? Those two sentries outside—”
“One of the sentries,” says Andriama, “is my brother. The other my oldest friend. The thirty whom I shall lead are men from the forests – outlaws, brigands, men under sentence of death already. They can be trusted, for if they betrayed us, they would join us in the pits.”
“Neither the Queen nor Chancellor Vavalana suspects,” says Rakota quickly. “I am certain of it.” He fidgeted and looked at me, smiling hopefully.
“When will my wife and I be free to leave?” says I, looking him in the eye, but it was Laborde who answered.
“Three days from now. For you must send the Guards to Ankay tomorrow, and we will strike on the night of the day following. From that moment, you are free.”
If I’m still alive, thinks I. I knew I was red in the face, which is a sure sign that I’m paralysed with fear – but what could I do but accept? Hadn’t they cut it fine, though? Not giving old Flash much time to play ’em false, if he’d been so minded, the cunning scoundrels. Even so, they felt it would do no harm to drop a reminder in my ear, for when the Prince had said a few well-chosen words to wind up our little social gathering, and we had dispersed quietly into the dark, and I was making my way tremulously back to the courtyard, where they were still racketing fit to wake the dead, Rakohaja suddenly surged up at my elbow.
“A moment, sergeant-general, if you please.” He had a cheroot going again; he glanced around, drawing on it, before continuing. “I was watching you; I do not think you are a calm man.”
Heaven alone knew what could have given him that impression. To demonstrate my sang-froid I uttered a falsetto moan of inquiry.
“Calm is necessary,” says the big b----rd, laying a hand on my arm. “A nervous man, in your situation, might give way to fear. He might conceive, foolishly, that his interest would be best served by betraying our plot to her majesty.” I started to babble, but he cut me short. “That would be fatal. Any gratitude which the Queen might feel – supposing she felt any at all – would be more than outweighed by her jealous rage on discovering that her lover had been unfaithful. Mam’selle Bomfomtabellilaba is an attractive woman, as you are aware. You seemed to be finding her so when I summoned you earlier this evening. The Queen would be most displeased with you if she heard of it.”
He took my arm as we approached the courtyard. “I remember one of her earlier … favourites, who was indiscreet enough only to smile at one of her majesty’s waiting-women. He never smiled again – at least, I do not think he did, but it is difficult to tell after a man’s skin has been removed, inch by inch, in one piece. Shall we find something to eat? – I am quite famished.”
a Preserved fried beef, a form of pemmican.