Britannia’s bridgehead into Abyssinia was, in fact, a godless mess, made infinitely worse by the dust and the stink. Beyond the harbour and camp lay a wide plain with mountains far off, but you could barely see them through the fawn-coloured cloud that hung over the tents and sheds and rooties (* Indian regiments’ tents.) and even the waters of the bay, covering everything in a fine powder which you had to be con stantly brushing off your clothes and skin, and spitting out.
But it was nothing to the stink, a foul carrion-reek that took you by the throat and made breathing a poisonous misery.
“If you think this is bad you should ha’ been here a month ago,” says the transport wallah who supervised the loading of my strong boxes into a railway bogie; he was a languid, amiable young haw-haw named Twentyman, a Hussar, complete with fly-whisk and followed by a chico (* Native child.) with a bucket of camphorated water whose duty it was to supply his master with wet clouts to sponge away the dust. “What is it? Thousands o’ dead beasts rottin’, that’s what. Cavalry mounts droppin’ like flies, mules too, no one knows why, vets never saw the like.” He dropped his wet rag into the bucket with a weary sigh. “Thank God for the vultures or we’d ha’ had an epidemic.”
I introduced myself, expecting to have to explain my arrival, but no such thing.
“We know all about you, Sir Harry!” says he blithely. “Mail sloop from Jedda brought word of you last week, deputation from H.Q.’s been waitin’ for three days, great excitement, what? And these are the long-awaited spondulikos, are they? Splendid, chuck ’em aboard, sarn’t, and you, dragoman, summon your stout lads to give us a shove, there’s a good chap!”
I bade a hasty farewell to Ballantyne, who was itching to get himself and his ship back into fresh air, and climbed into the bogie with Twentyman, followed by the Marines, who seated themselves on the strong-boxes.
“Sound move, sarn’t, keep their posteriors planted just so,” says Twentyman approvingly. “Can’t be too careful with the 33rd on hand, thievin’ Irish scoundrels to a man, desperate fellows. So keep an eye down on the dollars, or Paddy’ll be over the hedge with his pockets jinglin’, what?… [18] I say, dragoman, jildi jao, sub admi push karo (* “Hurry up, everybody push!”)
The dragoman bellowed and belaboured the coolies with his staff, and we were propelled towards the head of the causeway. I said it was as well they had a railway, with freight as heavy as mine, and how far did it go.
“Five miles, so far,” says Twentyman cheerfully. “It’s about a hundred and twenty to Attegrat, so it’s mules for you, I’m afraid, sir. They do twelve miles a day, supposin’ you can get ’em, for we’ve fewer than ten thousand pack animals when we’re supposed to have thirty thousand. Well, I ask you! Bombay bandobast (* Organisation) what?”
I thanked God privately that I wasn’t part of the expedition, and asked how quickly I could get word to Napier of my arrival.
“Oh, couple of hours—telegraph’s only halfway to Attegrat, but we’ve flag signallin’ by day, magnesium flare lamps for night mes sages, latest thing, bang-up-to-date, what? Ah, there’s one o’ the deputation! Hollo, Henry, he’s here at last!”
As we jumped down, a burly, beef-faced chap in a dust coat and kepi was striding up, grinning hugely, with his hand out.
“Don’t remember me, Sir Harry, I’ll be bound!” cries he. “George Henry [19] of the Standard— we shared a billet with Billy Russell and Lew Nolan at Sevastopol, and you went down with dysentery. Before poor old Lew got himself killed, and you and Cardigan charged to glory!” (* See Flashman at the Charge.)
He pumped my fin like a long-lost brother, but shot if I could place him.
“D’ye know, you launched my journalistic career?” cries he. “I was in the hospital commissariat, you know, until I offered a piece to the Advertiser describing your part in the Charge, and… well, here I am, eh?” I found myself wondering if he was the idiot who’d written that foul purple tosh which George Paget, curse him, had clipped out and framed and hung in the 4th Lights’ mess, all about “with what nobility and power the gallant Fl àshman rode, his eye flashing terribly.” And farting like a deflating balloon, had they but known.
My immediate thought was to give this familiar brute a set-down, but it’s best to keep in with the press, so I cried, to be sure, I remembered him well, and how had he been all these years? He went rosy with gratitude at being remembered by the famous Flashy.
“But here’s another who’s been counting the hours to see you!” cries he, and there, emerging from a tent, came Giant Despair dressed for a gypsy wedding, and I could only stand and gape.
Bar Mangas Colorado, he was the biggest man I’d ever seen in my life, closer to seven feet than six and built like an overgrown gorilla. His enormous body was wrapped in a robe made of lions’ manes which covered him from the white scarf round his neck to his massive half-boots, he wore a black beard to his chest, horn rimmed spectacles, and a smoking-cap, and carried a throwing spear in one hand and a straw umbrella in the other. To complete this bespoke costume, he had a sabre on his hip, a revolver in his belt, and a round native shield slung on his back. When he grinned, with a fierce glitter of teeth in the beard, he looked like a Ghazi on hasheesh—and then he spoke, brisk and high-pitched, his huge hand gently enfolding mine, and he might have been a vicar wel coming me to the sale of work.
“Charles Speedy, Sir Harry, used to be adjutant of the Tenth Punjabis, saw you once on the Grand Trunk, near Fatehpur, oh, ever so long ago, but you didn’t see me.”
Then you must have been lying down in cover and wearing mufti, thinks I. My astonishment showed, for he gave a whimsical shrug and spread his arms in display.
“Sir Robert Napier likes me to dress native, thinks it impresses the local sidis, bless ’em! I’m his political adviser, and at present your committee of welcome.” He gave another alarming grin, accompanied by even more alarming words. “Can’t tell you how glad we all are to have you with us.”
Now, that was the very first intimation I had of the possible ghastly sequel to the mission I was carrying out simply to oblige an old school chum. Of course, you could interpret the words two ways, and I lost no time in putting him right.
“I ain’t with you. Delivering the messages, rather.” I nodded at the boxes which the coolies were unloading under the watchful eye of Twentyman and my Bootneck sergeant. “I hear it’ll take ten days to get ’em up to Napier by mule. How short o’ the ready is he?”
“Tight, but one chestful of dollars should cover his immediate needs, and we’ll get those to him inside forty-eight hours. Can’t have his pockets to let when he meets the King of Tigre to arrange our passage through his territory. Napier’s been waiting beyond Attegrat for days, but his majesty’s hanging back, scared to commit himself, likely. Theodore may be a long way off, but these petty rulers go in terror of him still.” He gave his great booming laugh. “As political, ’twill fall to me to persuade King Kussai that we’ll be the winning side, so the sooner we’re southbound the better. You and I and Henty here can split a chest of silver among our saddle-bags, with a couple of led-beasts. Hear that, George? You can stop scribbling and do something useful for a change!”
“Tain’t every day two such lions as Sir Harry. Flashman, V.C., and the Basha Fallaka shake hands,” says Henty, pocketing his notebook. “You’re good copy, Charlie, the pair of you. When do we leave, then?”