He paused, choosing his words, and when he resumed he didn’t look at me directly. “I know it cannot have been easy for you. Perhaps to some of our old comrades, those stern men with their iron sense of duty, men like Havelock and Hope Grant and Hodson (God rest them), it might have seemed nothing out of the way… but not, I think, to you. Not to one in whom, I believe, duty has always been tempered with humanity, yes, and chivalry. Not,” he concluded, looking me in the eye, “to good-hearted Harry Flashman.” He stood up and shook my hand again. “Thank you, old fellow. That said, we’ll say no more.”
If I sat blinking dumbly it was not in manly embarrassment but in amazement at his remarkable misreading of my nature. All my life people had been taking me at face value, supposing that such a big, bluff daredevilish-looking fellow must be heroic, but here was a new and wondrous misconception. Just because I’d tickled his funnybone years ago by my offhand impudence to Hardinge, and been hail-fellow Flash Harry with the gift of popularity (as Thomas Hughes observed), I must therefore be “good-hearted"… and even humane and chivalrous, God help us, the kind of decent Christian whose conscience would be wrung to ribbons because he’d felt obliged to do away with an inconvenient nigger for the sake of the side.
That was why Napier had been gassing away like a benign vicar, judging me by himself, quite unaware that I’ve never had the least qualm about kicking the bucket of evil bastards like Theodore—but only when it’s suited me. You may note, by the way, that for once my eye-witness report conforms exactly with accepted his toric fact. All the world (Napier and Speedy excepted) believes that King Theodore took his own life, and all the world is right.
I messed in Napier’s tent that night, with Speedy and Merewether and a couple of staff-wallopers, and Henty and Austin of the Times the only correspondents. Henty was eager to know what I’d been up to, but Napier proved to have a nice easy gift of diplomatic deflection, and a frosty look or two from Austin showed Henty what the Thunderer thought of vulgar curiosity.
“We must beware of the others, though,” says Speedy later, when he and I were alone with Napier. “Stanley’s a damned ferret, and his editor hates us like poison. [55] The less they know of Sir Harry’s activities, the better.”
I didn’t see that it mattered, but Napier agreed with him. “You should not become an object of their attention. Indeed, I think it best that your part in the whole campaign should remain secret. If it were known that you had been our emissary to Queen Masteeat’s court, it would be sure to excite the correspondents’ interest, and if they were to discover that you were alone with Theodore when he died, it might lead to… unwelcome specu lation.” Speedy was nodding like a mechanical duck. “Fortunately, when Prideaux brought the news that you were in Theodore’s hands, I was able to send another agent to Queen Masteeat to carry on the work you had so expertly begun. You will not mind,” says he, giving me the Bughunter smile, “if I mention him in my despatches, rather than yourself? [56] For secu rity, you understand. Have no fear, your credit will be whispered in the right ears—and what’s a single leaf more or less in a chaplet like yours?”
There was nothing to say to this, and I didn’t much care anyway, so I allowed myself to succumb to the Napier charm.
“It means you’ll be spared the labour of a written report!” cries he genially. “You can do it verbatim, here and now! Give him a b. and s., Speedy, and one of your cheroots. Now then, Harry, fire away!”
So I told ’em the story pretty much as I’ve told it to you, omitting only those tender passages with Uliba and Masteeat and that bint at Uliba’s amba whose name escapes me… no, Malee, that was it… and the attempt on my virtue by Theodore’s queen-concubine. Nor did I tell them of my plunge down the Silver Smoke. Why? ’Cos they wouldn’t have believed it. But the horrors of Yando’s aerial cage, and the atrocities of Gondar, and my ordeal at the hands of the kidnappers whom Uliba had ordered to abduct me so that she could do me atrociously to death, and how I’d been rescued by Theodore’s fighting women, and Uliba given her passage out—these I narrated in my best laconic Flashy style, and had Speedy’s hair standing on end—an alarming sight.
“Impossible! I cannot credit it!” He was horror-stricken. “You say Uliba tried to kill you? Had Galla renegades carry you off so that she could… could murder you? No, no, Sir Harry… that cannot be—”
“I’m sorry, Speedy, but it’s true.” I was deliberately solemn now. “I would not believe it either, had I not seen it. I know you had the highest regard for her—not least for her loyalty. So did I. But I know what she did, and—”
“But why?” bawls he. “Why should she wish you harm?” He was in a great wax, glowering through his beard like an ape in a thicket, suspicion mingling with his shocked disbelief. “It wasn’t in her, I tell you! Oh, I know she was a vixen, and cruel as the grave to her enemies, and would have seized her sister’s throne—but that was honest ambition! She was true to her salt, and to her friends—”
“A moment, Speedy,” says Napier. “You may have touched it—her designs on the Galla throne. Did she,” turning to me, “try to enlist your help in her coup? Because if she did, and was refused, might she not, in resentment—”
He was interrupted by Speedy’s furious gobble of protest; plainly Uliba had kindled more than mere professional admiration in his gargantuan bosom, and he simply could not bring himself to believe her capable of murderous betrayal… and yet here was the redoubtable Flashman swearing to it, so it must be true. But WHY? Fortunately she was no longer alive to tell how I’d tried to kick her into a watery grave (not that anyone would have believed her; after all, Masteeat hadn’t); still, it would be best if some perfectly splendid explanation for her sudden hatred of me could be found; an explanation that would convince Speedy beyond all doubt. Napier’s wouldn’t wash with him, but I had one that would lay him out cold… so I waited until his indignant wattling had subsided, and weighed briskly in.
“Fraid that won’t answer, Sir Robert. Oh, she’d have welcomed our help in usurping her sister’s crown, but she never asked me point-blank. Dare say she might have done, but as I told you, Theodore’s riders pursued us, we were separated, and when I reached Masteeat’s court, Uliba had made her bid and failed and been arrested—”
“With respect, Sir Harry,” roars Speedy, showing no respect whatever, “we know that! But it don’t answer the question why she should want you dead! Bah, it’s madness! I will not believe it!” And then he gave me the cue I’d been waiting for. “What offence could you possibly have given her, to provoke such… such malice?”
I sat frowning, tight-lipped, for a long artistic moment, took a sip at my glass, sighed, and said: “The greatest offence in the world.”
Napier’s brows rose by the merest trifle, but Speedy goggled, bewildered. “What the… whatever d’ye mean, Sir Harry?”
I hesitated, drew a deep reluctant breath, and spoke quiet and weary, looking anywhere but at him. “If you must have it, Speedy… yes, your protege Uliba-Wark was a first-class jancada, a brave and resolute comrade, as fine a scout and guide as I ever struck… and a vain, proud, passionate, unbridled, promiscuous young savage!” What I could see of his face through the furze was showing utter consternation; he was mouthing “Promiscuous?” dumbly, so I made an impatient noise and spoke quickly.