Flashman And The Dragon fp-8 Read online

  For example, it was the strangest thing that enabled us to foresee the end of the great siege of Nanking in April '60. The Imperialists had huge entrenchments circling the city, and the river blockaded on both sides, but couldn't breach the rebel defences. The Taipings, hemmed within the city, had various forces loose in the countryside, but nothing apparently strong enough to raise the siege. It was such a stalemate that a great fair had actually been established between the Imp lines and the city walls, where both sides used to meet and fraternise, and the Imps sold all manner of goods to the Taipings! They brought food, opium, women, even arms and powder, which the Taipings bought with the silver they'd found in Nanking when they captured it back in '53.

  A ludicrous state of affairs, even for China; it took my fancy, and when one of our spies sent down particulars of the market trading, I happened to glance through it—and noted an item which seemed a trifle odd. I ain't given to browsing over such things, you may be sure, and I wish to heaven I'd never seen this one, for what I noticed proved to be a vital clue, and set Bruce thinking earlier than he need have done; with the most ghastly consequences to myself.

  "Here's a rum thing, Mr Fat," says I. "Why should the Taipings be buying bolts of black silk? Dammit, they spent 500 taels*(* About £160 at that time) on it this week—more than they spent on cartridge. Are they expecting funerals?"

  "Most singular," says he. "Mr Lin, have the goodness to examine the return for last week."

  So they did—and the Taipings had bought even more black silk then. They clucked over it, and burrowed into their records, and came to an astonishing conclusion.

  Whenever the Taipings undertook any desperate military action, they invariably raised black silk flags in every company, which their soldiers were bound to follow on pain of death—they even had executioners posted in the ranks to behead any shirkers, which must have done wonders for their recruiting, I'd have thought. And when we learned presently that the black silk had been sent out of the city to two of the Taiping armies in the field—the Golden Lions of the famous Loyal Prince Lee, and the Celestial Singers under Chen Yu-cheng—it was fairly obvious that Lee and Chen were about to fall on the Imp besiegers. Which, in due course, they did, and our knowing about it in advance enabled the Hon. F. W. A. Bruce to plan and scheme most infernally, as I said. (If you wonder that the Imps didn't realise the significance of the black silk they were selling the Taipings—why, that's the Imperial Chinese Army for you. Even if they had, they'd likely just have yawned, or deserted.)

  I was fool enough to be mildly pleased at spotting the item—Fat and Lin regarded me with awe for days—but I wasn't much interested, having discovered far more important matter in the secret files, which enabled me to bring off a splendid coup, thus:

  It appeared that Countess H , wife of a senior attaché at the Russian mission, paid weekly visits to a Chinese hairdresser, and, under the pretext of being beautified, regularly entertained four(!) stalwart Manchoo Bannermen in a room above the shop, later driving home with a new coiffure and a smug expression.

  [Official conclusion by Fat and Lin: the subject is vulnerable, and may be coerced if access should be required to her husband's papers. Action: none.]

  [Unofficial conclusion by Flashy: the subject is a slim, vicious-looking piece who smokes brown cigarettes and drinks like a fish at diplomatic bunfights, but has hitherto been invulnerable by reason of her chilly disdain. Action: advise subject by anonymous note that if she doesn't change her hairdresser, her husband will learn something to her disadvantage. Supply her with address of alternative establishment, and arrange to drop in during her appointments.]

  So you see, you can't overestimate the importance of good intelligence work. Fascinating woman; d'you know, she smoked those damned brown cigarettes all the time, even when … And kept a tumbler of vodka on the bedside table. But I digress. Bruce was preparing his bombshell, and it was on my return from an exhausting afternoon at the hairdresser's that he in-formed me, out of the blue, that he was sending me to Nanking.

  There was a time when the notion of intruding on the mutual slaughter of millions of Chinese would have had me squawking like an agitated hen, but I knew better now. I nodded judiciously, while my face went crimson (which it does out of sheer funk, often mistaken for rage and resolution) and my liver turned its accustomed white. Aloud I wondered, frowning, if I were the best man to send … a clever Chinese might do it better … one didn't know how long it would take … have to be on hand when Elgin arrived … might our policy not be compromised if a senior British officer were seen near rebel headquarters … strict neutrality … of course, Bruce knew best …

  "It can't be helped," says he briskly. "It would be folly not to employ your special talents in this emergency. The battle is fully joined before Nanking, and there's no doubt the Taipings will crush the Imps utterly in the Yangtse valley, which will alter the whole balance in China; at a stroke the rebels become masters of everything between Kwangsi and the Yellow Sea." He swept his hand across the southern half of China on his wall map.

  "I said some weeks ago that a time might come when we must talk to the Taipings," says he, and for once the cherub face was set and heavy. "Well, it is now. After this battle, Lee's hands will be free, and it's my belief that he will march on Shanghai. If he does, then we and France and America and Russia can ignore the Taipings no longer; we'll be bound to choose once and for all between them and the Manchoos." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "And that's a perilous choice. We've avoided it for ten years, and I'm damned if I want to see it made now, in haste."

  I said nothing; I was too busy recalling, with my innards dissolving, that at the last great battle for Nanking, when the Taipings took it in '53, the carnage had been frightful beyond contemplation. Every Manchoo in the garrison had been massacred, 20,000 dead in a single day, all the women burned alive—and it would be infinitely worse now, with both Taipings and Imp fugitives joining in an orgy of slaughter and pillage, raping, burning, and butchering everything in sight. Just the place to send poor Flashy, with his little white flag, crying: "Please, sir --may I have a word …?"

  "We can only maintain a de facto neutrality by keeping 'em at a distance," Bruce was saying. "If they advance on Shanghai, we're bound either to fight—and God help us—or come to terms with them, which the Manchoos would regard as a flagrant betrayal—and God help our Pekin expedition. So it is our task to see that the Taipings don't come to Shanghai."

  "How the deuce d'you do that?" I demanded. "If they beat the Imps at Nanking, and have blood in their eye, they won't stand still!"

  "You don't know the Taipings, Sir Harry," says he. "None of us does—except to know that with them anything is possible. I think they'll come to Shanghai—but this crazy king of theirs is capable of declaring a Seven Year Tranquillity, or some such stuff! Or launching his armies west to Yunnan. It is possible they may do nothing at all. That's why you must go to Nanking."

  "What can I hope to accomplish?" I protested, and he took a turn round the room, fingered a few papers, sat down, and stared at the floor. Devising some novel means of plunging me into the soup, no doubt.

  "I don't know, Sir Harry," says he at last. "You must persuade 'em not to march on Shanghai—at least for a few months—but how you're to do it …" He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. "The devil of it is, I can't send you with any authority. I've not replied to Lee's letter, but I'm having a verbal hint discreetly conveyed to him that he may expect a … an English visitor. No one official, of course; simply a gentleman from the London Missionary Society who wishes to visit the Heavenly Kingdom and present his compliments. Lee will understand … just as he will understand what is meant when the gentleman expresses the opinion—merely the opinion, mind you—that while a Taiping attack on Shanghai would destroy any hope of British co-operation, restraint now would certainly not incline us to a less favourable view of their overtures in the future."

  "I can see myself putting that in fluent Mandar
in!" says I, and he had the grace to shrug helplessly.

  "It is the most I can authorise you to convey. This is the most damned ticklish business. We have to let them see where we stand—but without provoking 'em into action, or offending 'em mortally (dammit, they may be the next government of China!), or, above all, being seen to treat with them in any official way whatsoever. That's why your presence is a gift from God—you've done this kind of business in India, with considerable success, as I recall." Well, that was so much rot; my diplomatic excursions had invariably ended in battle and beastliness on the grand scale, with my perspiring self barely a length ahead of the field. He got up and glowered at the map, chewing his lip.

  "You see how difficult it is for me to give you guidance," says he. "We do not even know what kind of folk they truly are. The Heavenly King himself has hardly been seen for years—he keeps himself secluded in a great palace, surrounded by a thousand female attendants, thinking wonderful thoughts!" I was willing to bet he didn't spend all his time thinking. "If he could be persuaded to inaction … to hold Lee in check …" He shrugged. "But who is to say if he is even rational, or if you will be allowed near him? If not, you must do what you can with Loyal Prince Lee."

  A splendid choice, you'll agree, between a recluse who thought he was Christ's brother, and a war-lord who'd done more murder than Genghiz Khan.

  "The only other who may be open to reason is the Prime Minister, Hung Jen-kan. He's the wisest—or at least the sanest—of the Taiping Wangs. Mission educated and speaks English. The rest are ignorant, superstitious zealots, drunk on blood and power, and entirely under the sway of the Heavenly King." He shook his head. "You must use such tactful persuasions as seem best; you will know, better than I could tell you, how to speak when you are face to face with them."

  In a high-pitched shriek, probably. Of all the hopeless, dangerous fool's errands … supposing I even got there.

  "How do I reach Nanking? Aren't the Imps blockading the river?"

  "A passage has been booked on Dent's steamer Yangtse. She got through to Nanking last week—the Imps give our vessels passage, and the river will be clear as far as Kiangyin still. If she's stopped there you must go on as seems best; one of our people, a missionary called Prosser, will be looking out for you—you'll have papers from the London Missionary Society, in the name of Mr Fleming, but the Taipings will know precisely who and what you really are, although neither they nor you will acknowledge it."

  So it was settled; I was for the high jump again, and not a damned thing to be done about it. He went over it all a second time, impressing on me the delicacy of the task, how H.M.G. must be in no way compromised, that every week of delay would be a godsend—but the main thing was to convince this crew of homicidal madmen that, whoever they killed next, it shouldn't be done at Shanghai.

  "Well, sir," says I, all noble and put-upon, "I'll be honest; I'll try, but I don't think there's a hope of success."

  "Another man might say that out of reluctance to go, for his safety's sake," says he solemnly. "I know that with you, the thought of danger has not crossed your mind." He was right there; it had stayed rooted. "God bless you, Sir Harry." And with the angels choiring above us, we shook hands, and I marched out, and bolted for the lavatory.

  I had my Adams in my armpit, a Colt in my valise, a hundred rounds, a knife in my boot, and a bulky notebook containing every known fact about the Taipings, courtesy of Messrs Fat and Lin, when I boarded the Yangtse on the following evening. It was a good two-day run to Nanking, in ideal conditions; at present, it might take a week. I was too sick and scared and furious to pay much heed to my surroundings, and as I remember the Yangtse was like any other river steamboat—half a dozen cabins aft for the Quality, of whom I was one, a couple of saloons below for those who couldn't afford a bunk, and forward a great open steerage for the coolies and the like. Her skipper was one Witherspoon, of Greenock, a lean pessimist with a cast in his eye and a voice like coals being delivered. I've no doubt I spent the time before we cast off brooding fearfully, but I don't recall, because as I leaned on the rail looking down on the quay and the oily water, I saw about the only thing that could have provided any distraction just then.

  The steerage gangway was swarming with coolies, and poorer Chinese, and a few white riff-raff—Shanghai was well stocked with poor whites and shabby-genteel half-castes and scourings from half the countries on earth, even in those days. There was lascars, of course, and Dagoes of various descriptions, Filippinos, Greeks, Malay Arabs, and every variety of slant-eye. Some of 'em were half-naked; others carried valises and bundles; the half-dozen Sikh riflemen who acted as boat-guards shepherded 'em aboard none too gently under the great flickering slush-lamps which cast weird shadows on the dockside and the steerage deck.

  I was watching with half my mind when I noticed a figure stepping from quay to gangway—and even in that motley assembly it was a figure to take the eye—not only for the outlandish cut of attire, but for style and carriage and … animal quality's the only phrase.

  I like tall women, of course. Susie Willinck comes to mind, and Cleonie of the willowy height, and the superb Mrs Lade by name and nature, and Cassy, and that German wench in the Haymarket, and even such Gorgons as Narreeman and Queen Ranavalona. Mind you, there's much to be said for the little 'uns, too—such as the Silk One, Ko Dali's daughter, and the little blonde Valla, and Mrs Mandeville the Mad Dwarf, and Whampoa's playmates, and Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman, and that voluptuous half-pint, Yehonala (but we'll come to her presently). On the whole, though, I ain't sure I don't prefer the happy medium—like Elspeth, and Lola, and Irma, and Josette, and Fetnab, and … Elspeth.

  It is no disrespect to any of these ladies, all of whom I loved dearly, to say that when it came to taking the eye, the female coming up the steerage gangplank was the equal of any and all. For one thing, she was six feet six if she was an inch, with the erect carriage of a guardsman, and light on her feet as a leopard. She was Chinese, beyond a doubt, perhaps with a touch of something from the Islands; when she laughed, as she did now, to the squat fellow behind her, it was with a deep, clear ring, and a flash of teeth in a lean, lovely face; not Chinese style, at all. She had a handkerchief bound tight round her head, and for the rest her clothing consisted of a blouse, cotton breeches ending at the knee, and heavy sandals. But round her neck she had a deep tight collar that seemed to be made of steel links, and her arms, bare to the shoulder, were heavy with bangles. As to the lines of her figure, Rubens would have bitten his brush in two.

  With the plank crowded ahead of her, she had to wait, holding the side-rail in one hand and lolling back at full stretch, carelessly, laughing and talking to her companion. She chanced to look up, and met my eye; she said something to the man, and looked at me again, laughing still, and then she was up the plank like a huge cat and out of sight.

  I'm not the most impressionable of men, but I found I was gripping the rail with both hands, and clenching my jaw in stern resolve. By gum, I couldn't let that go unattended to. Built like a Dahomey Amazon, but far taller and incomparably more graceful. And possibly the strongest female I'd ever seen, which would be an interesting experience. No common woman, either; how best to coax her up to the cabin? Probably not money, nor a high hand. Well, the first thing was to get a closer look at her.

  I waited till we had cast off, and the screw was churning the water, with the lights on Tsungming Island glittering in the dark distance far ahead. Then I asked the steward where the ladder was to the steerage; he pointed down the companion, and said I would find the mate by the saloon door, he'd show me. Sure enough, a fellow in a pilot cap came out of the saloon and started up the ladder as I started down. He glanced up, smiling, starting to bid me good evening, and then his jaw dropped, and my hand shot under my jacket to the butt of the Adams.

  It was Mr Frederick Townsend Ward.

  For perhaps five seconds we just stared at each other, and then he laughed, in the pleasantest tone imaginable.

&
nbsp; "Well, damn me!" says he. "It's the Colonel! How are you, sir?"

  "Keep your hands in front of you—sir," says I. "Now come up, slowly." I stepped back to the cabin deck, and he followed, still grinning, glancing at my hidden hand.

  "Say, what's the matter? Look, if that's a piece under your coat—this is a law-abiding boat, you know —"

  "You mean she isn't running guns to the Taipings?"

  He laughed heartily at this, and shook his head. "I gave that up! Say, and you took a shot at me—two shots! What did you do that for? You weren't going to come to any harm, you know. I'd ha' taken you back to Macao when we'd delivered the goods!" He sounded almost aggrieved.

  "Oh, forgive me! No one told me that, you see. It must have slipped everyone's mind, along with the trivial fact that you were carrying guns, not opium."

  "Listen, Carpenter said the less you knew the better," says he earnestly. "Those were his orders. The damned dummy," he added irritably. "If he'd ha' given me a real Chink pilot, we'd never ha' seen that Limey patrol-boat. Hey, how did you come out of that, though?"

  "Perhaps I didn't." I said it on the spur of the moment, and his eyes widened.

  "You don't mean they broke you?" He whistled. "Gee, I'm sorry about that! I sure am, though." Absolutely, he sounded shocked. "Over a passel o' guns. Well, I'll be!" He shook his head, and smiled, a mite sheepish. "Say, colonel … why don't you let that hog-leg alone, and come on in my berth for a drink? See here, I'm sorry as hell—but t'wasn't my fault. 'Sides, it's over and done with now." He looked at me, half-grinning, half-contrite. "And you're ahead o' me by two shots. No hard feelings. Okay?" And he held out his hand.