Flashman And The Dragon fp-8 Read online

  I nodded. "You see, they daren't offer us violence—not after the Arrow affair. And they've no real right to stop an opium boat—but they'll use every trick they know to bluff you, and once they're aboard, and you don't speak Chinese, and they outnumber you ten to one—well, they can sort of confiscate your cargo—oh, and release it later, no doubt, with apologies … and lo and behold, your chests of first-rate chandoo have been replaced, hey presto! by a ton of opium dross. See?"

  "Bastards!" was all he said. "Him an' his goddam kite!"

  "Speaking of which—see those butterflies? Somewhere up near the Second Bar an active little Chink with a spy-glass is taking note of 'em—which means that round about the Six Flats we'll meet another deputation, with a much more important Mandarin on board. It may be politic to present him with a couple of chests, rather than risk any embarrassment."

  "How's that?" His voice was sharp. "Give him some of our opium?"

  "What's sixteen quid out of sixteen thousand?" I wondered. He was silent for a moment. "I guess," says he, and then: "Six Flats is up beyond the First Bar, isn't it?"

  I said it was, and that we ought to be there tomorrow noon, and after a little more talk he said he'd better take post on the second lorcha for the night, as we had agreed, so that both vessels were under proper control.

  "Remember—keep close up, and don't stop for anything," says I, and he swore he wouldn't. He didn't bother with a small boat, but just dropped over the side and trod water until the second lorcha came by, and he scrambled aboard. A good boy that, thinks I; green, but steady. By Gad, I didn't know the half of him, did I?

  The boatmen were cooking their evening meal forward, but I'd brought cold fowl and beef, and after a capital meal and a bottle of Moselle while the sun went down I was in splendid trim for my Hong Kong girl, who was sitting by the stern-rail, singing high-pitched and combing her long hair. We went down to the tiny cabin, and were buckled to in no time; a fine, fat little romp she was, too, taking a great pleasure in her work and giggling and squealing as we thrashed about, but no great practitioner of the gentle art. But you don't expect Montez or Lilly Langtry for sixpence, which was what I was paying her; she was a crude, healthy animal, and when I'd played myself out with her she retired with a flask of the promised samshu and I settled down to my well-earned repose.

  She was back at first light, though, crawling in beside me and grunting as she rubbed her boobies across my face, which is better than an alarm clock any day. I laid hold, and was preparing to set about her when I realised that she was trembling violently, and the pretty pug face was working with a strange, ugly tic.

  "What the devil's the matter?" says I, still half-asleep, and she twitched and sniffed at me.

  "Wantee piecee pipe!" says she, whimpering. "Mass' gimme! Piecee pipe!"

  "Oh, lord!" says I. "Get one from the boatmen, can't you?" She wanted her opium, and I could see she'd be no fun until she'd had it. But the boatmen hadn't any, or wouldn't give it, apparently, and she began to blubber and twitch worse than ever, sobbing "Piecee pipe!" and pulling the pipe from her loin-cloth and shoving it at me. I slapped her across the cabin, and she lay there crying and shivering; I'd have let her lie, but her first awakening of me had put me in the mood for a gallop, and it occurred to me that with a few puffs of black smoke inside her she might be stimulated to a more interesting performance than she'd given the previous night. It was only a step under the companion to where half a ton of the best chandoo was to be had; Josiah would never grudge a skewerful in such a good cause, I was sure.

  So I growled at her to get her lamp going and bring her pin, and she came panting as I pushed through the chick-screen to the long main hold which ran the full length of the lorcha under its flush deck. There were the chests, and while she twitched and whined at my elbow I rummaged for a handspike and stuck it under the nearest lid. She had her little lamp lit, and was holding out the skewer in a trembling paw—as I said before, she was a most unlikely-looking guardian angel.

  I levered the lid up with a splintering of cheap timber, and pulled back the corner of the oilskin cover beneath. And then, as I recall, I said "Holy God!" and came all over thoughtful as I contemplated the contents of the chest. For if I hadn't had Mrs Phoebe Carpenter's word for it that those contents were high-grade prepared Patna opium, I'd have sworn that they were Sharps carbines. All neatly packed in grease, too.

  There was a time, in my callow youth, when the discovery that I was running not opium but guns would have had me bolting frantically for the nearest patch of timber, protesting that it was nothing to do with me, constable, and the chap in charge would be along in a moment. For opium, into China, was a commonplace if not entirely respectable commodity, whereas firearms, into anywhere, are usually highly contraband, and smuggling 'em is as often as not a capital offence. But if twenty years of highly active service had taught me anything, it was that there is a time to flee in blind panic, and a time to stand fast and think. Given the leisure, I daresay I'd have replaced that chest lid, slapped the slut who was staring wildly at me, and taken a turn on deck to reflect, thus:

  Had Mrs Carpenter spun me a web of yarn, and were she and dear Josiah aware that their cargo consisted of the very latest repeating weapons? Undoubtedly; Josiah had supervised the loading of the chests, and what he knew his wife knew, too. Very good, to whom should a God-fearing British clergyman and his wife be smuggling guns in China? Not to any British recipient, and certainly not to the Manchoo Imperials—which left the Taiping rebels. Utterly incredible—until one reflected that there were Taiping enthusiasts among our people, and none warmer than those clergy who believed that the "long-haired devils" were devout Christians fighting the good fight against the Imperial heathen. Were Carpenter and his wife sufficiently demented for that? Presumably; if you're religious you can believe anything. Well, then, if they wanted to supply Sharps carbines to the Taipings, why not ship 'em up the Yangtse to Nanking, where the Taipings were in force, instead of to Canton, where there wasn't a Taiping within a hundred miles? Simple: Nanking was under siege, the Yangtse was a damned dangerous river, and they'd have had to run the stuff through Shanghai, where there'd have been a far greater risk of detection.

  But, dammit, how could they hope to smuggle guns into Canton, where our garrison and gunboats were thick as fleas, and the chests would have to be opened at the factories? That was plainly impossible—so they didn't intend the lorchas ever to reach Canton. No, if their skipper turned eastward into the web of tributaries and creeks short of the First Bar, to some predetermined rendezvous … a Taiping mule-train waiting on a deserted river-bank … off-load and away up-country … why, it could be done as safe as sleep. And poor old Flashy, whom they'd needed to keep meddling and acquisitive Chinese officials at bay during the run past the forts, and who had performed that service to admiration—why, he'd be no trouble. Could he, Her Majesty's loyal servant, go running to Parkes at Canton to confess that he'd been instrumental in providing the Taipings with enough small arms to keep 'em going until doomsday? Not half.

  And that little snake Ward must be up to the neck in it! Hadn't he announced himself a Taiping-worshipper only yesterday? Wait, though—he'd also admitted that he would have hove to for the Imperial galley, which would have been fatal to him … By gum, had that been acting for my benefit? Yes, because later when I'd remarked that we might have to part with a chest or two as "squeeze" to the Mandarins, he'd been taken suddenly aback, until he'd reflected that the lorchas would never get that close to Canton. The lying, dissimulating, Yankee snake …

  That, I say, is how I would have reasoned, given the leisure—and I'd have been dead right, too. As it was, no leisure was afforded me; some of it went through my mind in a flash—the bit about Ward, for instance—but I hadn't had time to slam the chest cover down when I felt the lorcha swing violently off course, her mainsail cracked like a cannon, there was a yelling and scampering of bare feet overhead, and I had flung the wench aside, dived into the cabi
n, grabbed my Adams from beneath my pillow, and was up the companion like a jack-rabbit.

  I emerged just in time to duck beneath the main-sail boom as it came swinging ponderously overhead with a couple of boatmen clinging on, yelling bloody murder as they tried to secure it. The others were at the rail, pigtails flapping and chattering like monkeys, staring forward. By God, the second lorcha was now ahead, and there was Ward at her helm; we were close in by the east bank—it must be the east, for there was the sun gleaming dully through the morning mist, the first rays turning the waters to gold around us. But we were running south! My lorcha was just completing her turn; I spun round in bewilderment. Two of the boatmen had the filler jammed over as far as it would go—and a furlong behind us, its oars going like the Cambridge crew as it raced down towards us, was a dandy little launch rowed by fellows in white shirts and straw hats, with a little chap in the sternsheets egging them on. And half a mile beyond that, emerging from a creek on the east bank, was an undoubted Navy sloop. She was flying the Union Jack.

  There are times, as I said, to run, and times to think—and by God I couldn't do either! I know now that Ward, a stranger to the Pearl, and with only a clown of a boatman as pilot, had missed his turning in the dark, and run slap into one of our Canton patrollers, but in that moment I was aware only that the blue-jackets were upon us, and poor old Flash was sitting on top of the damnedest load of contraband you ever saw. I acted on blind instinct, thank heaven; the launch was closing in, and there was only one thing for it.

  "Ward, you toad!" I bellowed. "Take that!" And springing on to the rail to get a clear shot at him, I let blaze with the Adams. He sprang away from the tiller of the other lorcha, and I loosed off another shot which struck splinters from his rail; his boat yawed crazily, and in the crisis he behaved with admirable presence of mind: he was over her rail like a porpoise, taking the water clean and striking out like billyho for the bank, not a hundred yards off. I jumped down, roaring, and was about to send another ball after him when one of my helmsmen whipped out his kampilan and came at me, screaming like a banshee. I shot him point-blank, and the force of it flung him back against the rail, clutching his guts and pouring blood. Before his fellows could move I had my back to the rail, flourishing the Adams, and bawling to them to stand off or I'd blow 'em to blazes. For an instant they hesitated, hands on hilts, the ugly yellow faces contorted with rage and fear; I banged a shot over their heads, and the whole half-dozen scampered across beside their wounded mate. Behind me I heard a young voice, shrill with excitement, yelling "In oars! Follow me!", the launch was bumping against our side, and here was a young snotty, waving a cutlass as big as himself, and half a dozen tars at his heels, jumping on to our deck.

  "Come along, you fellows!" cries I heartily. "You're just in time! Careful, now … these are desperate villains!" And I gave a final flourish of the Adams at the boatmen, who were crouched, half naked and looking as piratical as sin, beside their leaking comrade, before turning to greet the gaping midshipman.

  "Flashman, colonel, army intelligence," says I briskly, and held out my hand. He took it in bewilderment, goggling at me and at the boatmen. "Just have your lads watch out for those rascals, will you? They're gun-runners, you know."

  "My stars!" says he, and then gave a little start. "Flashman, did you say—sir?" He was a sturdy, snub-nosed young half-pint with a bulldog chin, and he was staring at me with disbelief. "Not … I mean—Colonel Flashman?"

  Well, I don't suppose there was a soul in England—not in the Services, leastways—who hadn't heard of the gallant Flashy, and no doubt he was recognising me from the illustrations he'd seen in the press. I grinned at him.

  "That's right, youngster. Here, you'd best put some of your fellows aboard that other lorcha—why, blast it, the brute's getting clear away!" And I pointed over the rail to the near shore, where the figure of Ward was floundering ashore in the shallows. Even as we watched he disappeared into the tall reeds, and I sighed with inward relief. That was the star witness safely out of the way. I damned him and turned away, laughing ruefully, and the snotty came out of his trance like a good 'un.

  "Jenkins, Smith—cover those fellows! Bland—take the launch to that other lorcha and make her safe!" The other lorcha, I was pleased to see, was floundering about with her crew at sixes and sevens. As his tars jumped to it, the snotty turned back to me. "I don't understand, sir. Gun-runners, did you say?"

  "As ever was, my son. What's your name?"

  "Fisher, sir," says he. "Jack Fisher, midshipman."

  "Come along, Jackie," says I, clapping him on the shoulder like the cheery soul I was—no side, you see. "And I'll show you the wickedness of the world."

  I took him below, and he gaped at the sight of the Hong Kong girl, who was crouched shivering and bare-titted. But he gaped even wider when I showed him the contents of the "opium" chests.

  "My stars!" says he again. "What does it mean?"

  "Guns for the Taiping rebels, my boy," says I grimly. "You arrived just in time, you see. Another half-hour and I'd have had to tackle these scoundrels single-handed. Your captain got my message, I suppose?"

  "I dunno, sir," says he, owl-eyed. "We saw your lorchas, turning tail, and I was sent to investigate. We'd no notion ..

  So Ward's guilty conscience had been his undoing—if he'd held his course the Navy would never have looked at him, and if they had, why, he was just carrying opium, and had the famous Flashy to vouch for him. For he wasn't to know I'd sniffed out his real cargo. Gad, though, if that slut hadn't begged for a pipe of chandoo, I'd have been in a pretty fix, with Ward panicking, the Navy's suspicions aroused, and myself flat-footed when they came aboard and started rummaging. Thanks to her, I'd had those few minutes to plot my course.

  "Mr Fisher," says I, "I think it's time I had a word with your skipper, what? Perhaps you'd be good enough to take me aboard?"

  You see, of course, what I was about. It was the ploy I'd used on the slave-ship Balliol College in '48, when the Yankee Navy caught us off Cape San Antonio, and to save my skin I'd welcomed our captors with open arms and let on that I'd only been with the slavers to spy on them.*(* See Flash for Freedom.) Then, I'd had Admiralty papers to prove my false identity, but here I had something infinitely better—my fame and reputation. For who, boarding a gun-runner and finding valiant old Flashy holding the miscreants at bay single-handed, would suspect that he was one of the gang? Heroes who have led the Light Brigade and braved the heathen hordes at Cawnpore and Kabul, are above suspicion; Master Fisher might well be fogged as to what I was doing there, exactly, but it never crossed his innocent young mind that I was anything but what I'd announced myself—an army officer apprehending villainous foreign smugglers. And since I was from intelligence, no doubt there was some splendid mystery behind it, and explanations would follow. Quite.

  Nor did the prospect of explaining trouble me—much. After all, I was Flashy, and it was well-known officially that I'd been up to my ears in secret affairs in India and Central Asia, and here, they would think, was more of the same. Once I'd determined what tale to tell, it was simply a matter of carrying it off with modest assurance (trust me for that) and a pinch of mystery to make 'em feel confidential and cosy, and they'd swallow whatever I told 'em, nem. con. There wouldn't be a soul to give me the lie, and some of it would be true, anyway. (I'm proud to say it never occurred to me to tell the real truth, with Mrs Carpenter, etc. They'd never have swallowed that—which is ironic. Anyway, it would have made me look an imbecile.)

  So when I was aboard the sloop, and its young commander had listened to little Fisher's report and my own terse embellishments, and whistled softly at the sight of the lorchas' cargo, I was perfectly prepared for the inevitable question, asked with respectful bewilderment:

  "But … how came you to be aboard of them, sir?"

  I looked him in the eye with just a touch of tight-lipped smile. "I think, commander," says I, "that I'd best report direct to Mr Parkes at Canton. Least said, wha
t? You received no message from him about …?" and I nodded at the lorchas. "Just so. Perhaps he was right. Well, I'll be obliged if you'll carry me to him as soon as may be. In the meantime," I permitted myself a wry grin, "take good care of these Chinese villains, won't you? I've been after 'em too long to want to lose 'em now. Oh, and by the way—that boy Fisher shapes well."'

  He couldn't get me to Canton fast enough; we were in the Whampoa Channel by noon, and two hours later dropped anchor off Jackass Point, opposite the old factories. Then there was a delay while the lorchas and their crews were taken in charge, and the commander went to make his report to his chief, and to Parkes—I didn't mind, since it gave me time to polish the tale I was going to tell—and it wasn't until the following morning that I was escorted through the English Garden to the office and residence of Harry Parkes, Esq., H.M. Commissioner at Canton and (bar Bruce at Shanghai) our chief man in China. From all I'd heard, he was formidable: he knew the country better than any foreigner living, they said, for though he wasn't thirty he'd been out since childhood, served through the Opium Wars, been on cutting-out expeditions as a schoolboy, done all manner of secret work and diplomatic ruffianing since, and carried things with a high hand against the Chinese—whose language he spoke rather better than the Emperor.

  He greeted (I won't say welcomed) me with brisk formality, stiff and upright behind his official desk, not a hair out of place on the sleek dark head. Energy was in every line of him, from the sharp prominent nose to the firm capable hands setting his papers just so; he was all business at once, in a clear, hard voice and suddenly, convincing him didn't seem quite so easy.

  "This is a singular business, Sir Harry! What's behind it?"

  "Not much," says I, hoping I was right. Clever and easy, I don't mind—I'm that way myself—but clever and brusque unsettles me. I handed him the "requested and required" note Palmerston had given me when I went to India—the usual secret passport, but pretty faded now. "You had no message from me?"