‘Wait until the chief hears about this!’ fumes my informant. ‘We’re far too soft with these blasted savages, givin’ in to the bastards every time, and a wretched sidi is thrashed for nothing! Well, I just hope that next time he lets himself be robbed, and bills that clown Krapf for the loss! Depend upon it, these damned people despise us as weaklings, and they’ll become insolent to the point of fightin’ us if we don’t show who’s master!’
I was glad to be shot of the silver, an uncomfortable responsibility when it was being carried by that troop of thieving blackguards; their reluctance to part with their saddlebags was pitiful to see. In all modesty, I believe that their respect for ‘Bloody Lance’ was what had stopped the villains from trying to filch the odd dollar. It was all tallied out on the paymaster’s table, and since he’d been informed by signal that the rest was coming up, he made out a receipt to be handed over on its arrival. I haven’t had it yet.
Napier was to meet his princely savage at a place called Mai Dehar, a short day’s ride ahead, so with the Scindees as escort I set off after tiffin across the valley and past the collection of huts that makes up Attegrat village. There’s a church and a ruined palace, but what takes the eye is the veritable Bluebeard’s castle perched on an eminence high above the valley, a massive keep with four great turrets at each corner. A sinister sight even in broad day, grim and forbidding behind its curtain wall.
Our way wound through the hills into a desolation where we began to see all the signs of civil war and spoiling, with villages ruined and abandoned, burned huts, fallow fields, and hardly a living creature except at a distance. The villages still inhabited were all on rising ground, stoutly walled, and on every peak there was a stark adobe tower after the style of the one at Attegrat; some were a good fifty feet high and of five or six storeys, built on the lips of precipices, crouched like vultures over the valleys below. A proper simile, for my havildar explained that these were the holds of robber barons who preyed on the countryside, and between them and the slave-raiding Gallas from the south the peasantry had a deuced thin time – it reminded him, he said cheerfully, of home, that blessed frontier where honest chaps lived by pillage and extortion, with only the interfering British Sirkar to mar the idyll. I pointed out that the Sirkar also paid the wages of him and his fellow-thieves when they took a holiday from crime, and he admitted that we had our uses.
We covered about twenty miles through that waste land, and lay overnight by the well serving the nearby village of Ad Abaga; the wells, being low-lying, are necessarily outside the walls of all the hill communities. I was thankful for my escort of bearded evil faces as we sat round our fire listening to the jackals and the occasional horrid heh-heh of a hyena while we watched the moon rise to silhouette another of those nightmare cliff-castles. I remarked on its ghastly look, and the Scindee havildar chuckled.
‘The husoor has heard the story of that castle? No? Of the strange Lady of the Fortress who is seen by no one? The tale runs that she is the wife of a robber chief who is a prisoner of the King of Lasta –’ he pointed to the distant mountains ‘– and that she has vowed that the sun shall not shine or the rain fall on her head until he is home again. Others believe she is under a spell, an enchantress bound by some great magician to dwell forever confined and solitary.’
‘A regular Lady of Shalott, eh? And what do the Scindees think?’
‘Why, that she bribed the King of Lasta to kidnap her man so that she might beguile herself with lusty servitors!’ cries he, and his ruffians chortled approval. I quoted Ilderim Khan’s adage: ‘A Gilzai and a grandmother for scandal!’ and they fairly hooted.
Our way next day lay through more broken country and tumble-down remains of raided villages, across a plateau so rough that it was late afternoon before we came up with Napier’s pickets on the crest that overlooks Mai Dehar, a shallow valley cut across by a stream, where John Bull first came face to face with Prester John.
A momentous meeting and a splendid spectacle, by all accounts, with our stalwart ranks of King’s Own, native cavalry and infantry, and artillery firing salutes from the near side of the stream, while the Tigre army, four thousand strong, suddenly came into view on the far crest, drums thundering as they formed a vast half-moon formation with their monarch in its midst. I say ‘by all accounts’ because I arrived too late to see it, and if you want the colourful details you must refer again to Henty and Stanley or any of the great rabble of correspondents who were on hand.fn11
They’ll tell you how Napier rode to the meeting on an elephant, but had to get off because it scared the Tigre horses, and finally arrived in the royal presence on a charger, which he presented as a gift to King Kussai, along with a rifle, receiving in return a shield, spear, lion tippet, and a white mule. They spent the day in the King’s tent confabbing, and when Kussai remarked that he didn’t care for invaders, much, but would stretch a point if they were Christians, Napier replied diplomatically that he liked all Abs except those who imprisoned our people. Ah, says Kussai, you mean Theodore, an evil son-of-a-bitch who’ll stand deposing, and I’m just the lad to replace him. Alas, says Napier, we ain’t concerned with Ab politics, just our captives, which of course means we shan’t help your competitors either. Can’t say fairer than that, concedes Kussai, carry on through my dominions, give Theodore his gruel and leave the rival claimants to me.
That was the gist of it, but Henty and Co. will also hold you spellbound with descriptions of the barbaric splendour of the Tigre warriors in their velvet mantles, lion-mane robes, shirts all colours of the rainbow, bearing sickle-bladed swords, shields, lances, and a few muskets, their officers in flowing silk headdresses, Bedouin style, with silver fillets round the forehead, and braided hair and beards. They’ll comment on the noble bearing of young King Kussai in his red-fringed toga and gold gauntlets, mild in speech and manner and not the smartest despot between Cairo and the Cape, perhaps, but amiable to a degree, being in no doubt which side his bread was buttered.
The proceedings concluded with ceremonial inspections, Napier running the rule over the Tigre army, strapping fellows if primitively armed, and Kussai being treated to a display of foot drill and manoeuvres by our gallant lads; there were those who thought we’d have done better to show the Abs our Armstrong guns and rockets in action, by way of warning, for they seem to have come away from that first encounter convinced that while we’d be invincible on the plain, we’d be no match for their irregulars in the high country.
All this was over by the time we breasted the slope to the crest where the pickets were stationed, with the sun setting behind them, and here came a young subaltern of the 3rd Native Cavalry, mighty trim in his blue and silver, cantering downhill to meet us. He greeted me by name, explaining that he’d been on the q.v. all day, with instructions to bring me to Napier’s tent as soon as I was sighted – which would have been flattering if I hadn’t, as you know, been leery of generals who can’t wait to see me. With good cause, for …
‘I wonder, Sir Harry, if you’d be good enough to wear this?’ says he, holding out a long hooded cloak of the kind the Heavies wore in those days. ‘And my rissaldar will look after your Scindees.’
I looked from the cloak to him and his rissaldar, who was throwing me a salaam and calling my escort to attention, and the tiny doubt that had been stirring at the back of my mind since Speedy had rejoiced at my being ‘with’ the expedition grew suddenly into a dreadful foreboding as he put the cloak into my reluctant hand.
‘What the devil’s this?’ I demanded.
‘If you would please keep it close about you,’ says he. ‘Sir Robert wishes your presence to be known to as few people as possible, especially the enem— that is, our Abyssinian friends. There are a number of them moving about our lines, you see … oh, perfectly cordial, merely curious—’
‘And why the hell shouldn’t they see me? I ain’t in purdah!’
‘Sir