The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection. George Fraser MacDonald

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 … zanahary^b …” 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