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We spent the night where we were, since the crack I'd taken on the head had left me feeling fairly seedy. Next morning I had nothing worse than a bad headache, and we set off north-west through the wooded flats and flood-lands that lie between the great river and the Tai Hu lake to the south. Nanking was about fifty miles ahead, but in the state of the country I reckoned it would take us a good four days, and wary travelling at that.

For we were marching into a battle-field—or rather, a killing-ground that stretched a hundred miles, where the remnants of the Imperial armies were fleeing before the Taipings, with both sides savaging the country as they went. I've seen slaughter and ruin in my time—Gettysburg, and Rio villages where the Mimbreno had passed through, the Ganges valley in the Mutiny time, and the pirate-pillaged coast of Sarawak—but those were single battle-grounds, or a few devastated villages at most. This was a whole country turned into a charnel-house: village after burned village, smoke on every horizon, corpses, many of them hideously mutilated, on every wrecked street and in every paddy and copse—I remember one small town, burning like a beacon, and a pile of bodies of every age and sex outside its shattered gate—that pile was eight feet high and as long as a cricket pitch; they had been herded together, doused with oil, and burned.

"Imps," says Szu-Zhan, and I daresay she was right, for they were worse than the rebels. We saw scattered bands of them every hour, and had to lie up as they passed: mobs of Banner-men, in their half-armour and quilted jacks, Tiger soldiers like grotesque harlequins in their close-fitting suits of diagonal black and yellow, Tartar cavalry in fur-edged conical hats and gaudy coats, dragging wailing women behind their ponies. In one place we saw them driving a crowd of peasants—there must have been a couple of hundred—into an open field, and then they just charged among them, and butchered them with their swords and lances. And everywhere the dead, and the death-smell mingling with the acrid smoke of burning homes.

I don't describe this to harrow you, but to give some notion of what China was like in that summer of '60. And this was one small corner, you understand, after one battle, in a vast empire where rebellion had flamed for ten long years. No one can ever count the dead, or tally the destruction, or imagine the enormity of its blood-stained horror. This was the Taiping—the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace.

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After the first day, though, I barely noticed it, any more than you notice fallen leaves in autumn. For one thing, my companions were indifferent to it—they'd lived in it for years. And I had my own skin to think about, which means after a little time that you feel a curious elation; you are alive, and walking free, in the Valley of the Shadow; your luck's holding. And it's easy to turn your thoughts to higher things, like journey's end, and your continued survival, and the next meal, and the slim towering figure ahead, with those muscular buttocks and long legs straining the tight breeches.

The devil of it was, while we were sleeping out there was no privacy, with those six villains never more than a few yards away, and dossing down beside us at night. She was watching me, though, with that knowing smile getting less lazy, and her mouth tightening with growing impatience as the hours and miles passed. I was getting a mite feverish myself; perhaps it was the barbarous conditions, and the frustration of being so near, but I wanted that strapping body as I wanted salvation; once, when we lay up in a wood while a long convoy of Imp stragglers went by, we found ourselves lying flank to flank in long grass, with the others behind the bushes, and I began to play with her until she turned on me, her mouth shaking and searching for mine. We pawed and grappled, grunting like beasts, and I dare say would have done the trick if the clown Yei hadn't come and trodden on us.

By the second afternoon we had struck a patch of country which the war seemed to have passed by; peasants were hard at it standing in the fields, and not far ahead there was a fortified hill-summit, betokening a safe village; we had picked up some baggage and side-arms on our journey, and even a cart to push them in, at which the bandits took complaining turns, and Szu-Zhan said we should stay that night at an inn, because camping out you never knew when you might be molested by prowlers. It's a great thing, property-owning.

We were such an evil-looking gang—especially with myself, a big-nosed, fair-skinned barbarian, which is the height of ugliness to the Chinese—that I doubted if they'd let us through the gate, but there was a little temple just outside the wall, with a vulture-like priest ringing a hand-bell and demanding alms, and once Szu-Zhan had given him a handful of cash he croaked to the gate-keeper to admit us. It was a decent village, for China; the piled filth was below window-level, and the Inn of Mutual Prosperity had its own tea-shop and eating-house—quite the Savoy or Brown's, if you like, a shilling a night, bring your own grub and bedding.

Indeed, I've fared worse at English posting-houses in my schooldays than I have in some rural Chink hotels. This one was walled all round, with a big archway into its central court, and we hadn't stopped the cart before a fat little host was out with the inevitable tea-pot and cups. Szu-Zhan demanded two rooms—one on the side-wall for the six lads, and another de luxe apartment at the top of the yard, away from the street—those are the better, larger rooms, and cost three hundred cash, or eighteenpence. They're big and airy—since the door don't fit and the paper in the windows lets in fine draughts, but they're dry and warm, with a big kong, or brick platform bed, taking up half the room. Under the bed there's a flue, for dry grass or dung fuel, so you sleep most comfortably on top of a stove, with the smoke going up a vent in the wall—or rather, not going up, since the chimney's blocked, and you go to bed in dense fog. Privacy is ensured by closing the door and getting mine host to jam your cart up against it.

Author's Note posted:

The Inn of Mutual Prosperity was fairly typical, to judge from the experience of that sturdy missionary, the Rev. Alexander Williamson, who stayed in similar establishments while ranging North China on behalf of the National Bible Society of Scotland. He and John Scarth (their works are cited in Note 3) are lively and informative sources for China at this time, and their observations of the social scene, customs, manners, recreations, costume, food, crime, punishment, etc., accord closely with Flashman's. Mr William-son has a keen eye for detail and a fine sweeping style; thus the Chinese are "ignorant, conceited and supercilious" and regard Europeans as a fierce, mentally deficient, semi-tamed breed "to be placated like dogs, or as wilful children." He is scathing on Chinese morals: "Secret dens of hideous licentiousness exist in every city", and on the great roads "all disguise is thrown off." Scarth takes a particular delight in minutiae, and is good with the telling phrase: professional mourners he describes as "howling for hire". They and many foreign writers confirm Flashman's strong impression of the Chinese conviction of superiority over all other races, whom they regarded as having tributary status.

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There wasn't a "best" room available, until Szu-Zhan shrugged back the cloak she'd picked up, and rested her hand on her cleaver-hilt, at which mine host blenched and wondered if the Paddy-field Suite wasn't vacant after all; he signified this by grovelling at our feet, beating his head on the ground in the kow-tow ("knocking head", they call it), pleading with us to wait just a moment, and then scrambling up, grabbing a servant, and getting him to deputise as kow-tow-er while the host scurried off to eject a party who had just booked in. He fairly harried them out, screaming—and they went, too, dumb and docile—while the servant continued to bash his brains out before us, and then we were ushered in, another tea-pot was presented with fawning servility, and we were assured that dinner could he served in the apartment, or in the common-room, where a wide variety of the choicest dishes was available.

It was the usual vile assortment of slimy roots and gristle which the Chinese call food, but I had a whole chicken, roasted, to myself—and it was during the meal that I realised my companions were not "Chinese", but Manchoos. The common Chinks eat out of a communal rice-bowl, but even the lowliest Manchoo will have his separate rice-dish, as Szu-Zhan and her companions did. (Better-class Manchoos, by the way, seldom eat rice at all.)

Other interesting native customs were to be observed after t he meal, when the six, gorged to the point of mischief, announced that they were off to the brothel next door. I've never seen prostitution so blatant as in China, and this although it's a hanging offence; all through our meal, shabby tarts with white-painted faces had been becking and giggling in the door-way, calling out and displaying the mutilated feet by which the Chinese set such store, and the lads had been eating faster and faster in anticipation. Now, with the samshu and tea going round, Szu-Zhan, who'd been leaning back against the wall, sipping and eyeing me restively, threw a bag of cash on the table and reminded them that we would be off at dawn. Put money in front of a Chinese, even if he's starving, and he'll gamble for it; they turned out the purse, yelping, and fell to choi-mooy, the linger game, in which you whip your hand from behind your hack, holding up one or more fingers, and the others have to guess how many, double quick.

In two minutes they were briefly at blows, with the tarts hanging over the table, egging them on; then they settled down and the fingers shot out to a chorus of shouts, followed by groans or laughter, while Szu-Zhan and I sat apart, nibbling a fiery-tasting ginger root which she'd spoke for, and killing the taste with tea and samshu.

I watched her, strong teeth tearing at the ginger root, and saw she was breathing hard, and there was a trickle of sweat down the long jaw; she's on a short fuse now, thinks I, so I took her hand firmly and led her out and quickly across to the room. I had her shirt and breeches away before the door closed, and was just seizing those wonders, yammering with lust, when she spun me round in an iron grip, face to the wall, and disrobed me in turn, with a great rending of linen and thunder of buttons. She held me there with one hand while with the other she drew a long, sharp finger-nail slowly down my back and up again, faster and faster, as she hissed at my ear, biting my neck, and finally slipped her hand round my hips, teasing. I tore free, fit to burst, but she turned, squirming her rump into me, seizing my wrists and forcing my fingers up into her chain collar, panting: "Now, Halli', now—fight! Fight!" and twisting her head and shoulders frenziedly to tighten my grip.

Well, strangulation as an accompaniment to la galop was, I confess, new to me, but anything to oblige the weaker sex (my God!). Besides, the way she was thrashing about it was odds that if I didn't incapacitate her somehow, she'd break my leg. So I hauled away like fury, and the more she choked the wilder she struggled, plunging about the room like a bronco with Flashy clinging on behind for his life, rolling on the floor—it was three falls to a finish, no error, and if I hadn't secured a full nelson and got mounted in the same moment, she'd have done me a mischief. After that it was more tranquil, and we didn't hit the wall above twice; I settled into my stride, which calmed her to a mere frenzy of passion, and by the time we reached the ecstatic finish she was as shuddering clay in my hands. As I lay there, most wonderfully played out, with her gasping exhausted beneath me, I remember thinking: Gad, suppose she and Ranavalona had been joint rulers of Madagascar.

The trouble was that, being so infernally strong, she recovered quickly from athletic exercise, and within the hour we were at it again. But now I insisted that I conduct the orchestra, and by giving of my artistic best, convinced her that grinding is even better fun when you don't try to kill each other. At least she seemed to agree afterwards, when we lay in each other's arms and she kissed me lingeringly, calling me fan-qui Halli' and recalling our contortions in terms that made me blush. So I drifted into a blissful sleep, and about four o'clock she was here again, offering and demanding violence, and this time our exertions were such that we crashed through the top of the bed into the fireplace, and completed the capital act among the warm embers and billowing clouds of ash. Well, I reflected, that's the first time you've done it in a Chinese oven'. Semper aliquid novi.

A little touch of Flashy in the night goes a long way with some women; then again, there are those who can't wait to play another fixture, and so ad infinitum. I suppose I should be grateful that Szu-Zhan the bandit was one of the latter, since this ensured my safety and also gave me some of the finest rough riding I remember; on the other hand, the way she spun out that journey to Nanking, over another three days and tempestuous nights, it looked long odds that I'd have to be carried the last few miles.

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She gave me concern on another, more spiritual score, too. As you know, I've no false modesty about my ability to arouse base passion in the lewder sort of female (and some not so lewd, neither, until I taught 'em how), but I've never deluded myself that I'm the kind who inspires deep lasting affection—except in Elspeth, thank God, but she's an emotional half-wit. Must be; she's stuck by me for sixty years. However, there were one or two, like Duchess Irma and Susie, who truly loved me, and I was beginning to suspect that Szu-Zhan was one of those.

For one thing, she couldn't get enough of my company and conversation on the march, plaguing me to tell her about myself, and England, and my time in the Army, and places I'd visited, and my likes and dislikes … and whether I had a wife at home. I hesitated at that, fearful that the truth might displease her, but decided it was best to let her know I was spoke for already. She didn't seem to mind, but confessed that she had five husbands herself, somewhere or other—a happy, battered gang they must have been.

She would listen, intent, to all I said, those slant eyes fixed on my face, and the arch, satisfied smile breaking out whenever I paid her any marked attention. Then on the last lap into Nanking she fell thoughtful, and I knew the poor dear was brooding on journey's end.

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On the previous afternoon we had come into Taiping country proper, and I saw for the first time those red jackets and blue trousers, and the long hair coiled in plaits round the head that marked the famous Chang Maos, the Long-haired Devils, the Coolie Kings. What I'd heard was true: they were finer-featured than the ordinary Chinks, smarter, more disciplined even in their movements—aye, more austere is the word. Their guard-posts were well-manned, on the march they kept ranks, they were alert, and full of business, holding up their heads … and I began to wonder if perhaps Napoleon was right. The greatest rebellion ever known; the most terrible religious force since Islam.

Szu-Zhan proved to be well-known to them, by repute, and now I learned how many professional brigands had joined with the Taipings, out of no ideals, but just for the loot and conversation, only to fall away because they wouldn't take the rigid discipline—quite trivial military crimes were punished by death or savage flogging, and apart from that there was all the rubbish of learning texts and the Heavenly King's "thoughts" and keeping strictly the Sabbath (Saturday, to them, like the Hebrews). So Szu-Zhan took part with them only when she felt like it, which wasn't often.

They treated her with immense respect—mind you, he'd have been a damned odd man who didn't. I've known a fair number of females who were leaders of men, and every time someone has thought fit to remark on the fact of their sex. Not with Szu-Zhan; her leadership was a matter of course, and not only because she was gigantic in stature and strength. She had a quality; put 'em on an outpost together and even Wellington wouldn't have pressed his seniority.

author's note posted:

Professional bandits, pirates, and members of the triad secret societies occasionally joined the Taipings, as did other rebels against the Manchu regime, only to fall away because of the revolutionaries' strict social and religious discipline, and because regular crime paid better. Some of the bandits continued as auxiliaries, among them at least two female brigand leaders, one of whom was called Szu-Zhan.

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But my own humble presence in the party helped to speed us on our way, too, for they were eager to welcome any outside Christians who might take word home of what splendid chaps they were; they knew, you see, that what their movement needed was the approval of the great Powers: Britain, France and America for preference, but Paraguay would do at a pinch. So we rode the last day, all eight of us, in our cart hauled by forty straining peasants in harness, with Taiping guards flogging 'cm on; when one collapsed they kicked him into the ditch and whistled up another. -

I'll not forget that ride in a hurry, for it took us not into Nanking, but into the heart of the vast army of Golden Lions, commanded by General Lee Hsiu-chen, the Loyal Prince, and the man I had come to see. I had mixed feelings about meeting him; great men are chancy, and best viewed from a distance as the parade goes by.

And didn't this one have a parade of his own, just! Mile after mile of outposts and lines and bivouacs, swarming with orderly mobs of red coats and white straw coolie hats; parks of artillery, laagers of store-wagons and equipment carts; great encampments for the separate corps—the Youths, the Earths, the Waters, the Women, who are respectively the light infantry and scout battalions, the sappers and builders, the river navy, and the female regiments, who alone were a hundred thousand strong. I looked on those anthills of disciplined humanity, covering the ground into the hazy distance, and thought: Palmerston, you should see this. God knows about their quality, although they look well, but for weight of numbers they'll be bad to beat. Take on the Russians, or the Frogs, or the Yankees, if you like, but don't tangle with this, because you'll never come to the end of them.

Well, I was wrong, as you know. A dreamy young Scot and a crazy American between them brought the Great Kingdom of I Heavenly Peace down in bloody wreck in the end. But I wouldn't have bet on it that day below Nanking. And this wasn't the half of them; the rest were still out yonder, murdering Imps.

Author's Note posted:

Flashman's account of the formidable Taiping army is in accord with other contemporary descriptions, so far as armaments, uniforms, organisation, battle tactics, black flags, etc., are concerned. (See especially Augustus Lindley, and the other sources listed in Appendix I). But one eminent military man disagreed with him about the rebels' discipline: Wolseley, who visited Nanking a year later, thought the Taipings "an undrilled, undisciplined rabble" whose strength lay in the fact that the Imperial army was even worse. Even so, Wolseley had a deep admiration for the Chinese, whom he saw as "the coming rulers of the world." His vision of Armageddon was China versus the United States—"fast becoming the greatest power of the world. Thank heaven, they speak English." (Wolseley, The Story of a Soldier's Life, 1903).

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When we were clearly coming to the centre of the camp, I decided it was time to announce myself as an English gentleman seeking General Lee. That cleared our way to a cluster of head-quarter tents, where I made myself known to an officer outside the biggest marquee of all, with stalwart bowmen in fur caps and steel breastplates standing guard, a golden lion standard at its canopy, and yellow ribbons fluttering from its eaves. He told me to wait, and I turned to Szu-Zhan, asking her to act as my sponsor. She shook her head.

"No. Go in alone. He will not wish to see me."

"He will when I tell him that it's thanks to you I'm here," says I. "Come on, tall girl! I need you to speak up for me."

She shook her head again. "Better you speak to him alone. Don't worry, he will understand what you say." She glanced round at the six wise men, who were studying their orderly surroundings with contempt, and spitting over the edge of the cart. "You'll get no credit from this company, fan-gui."

Something in her voice made me look closer—she'd been calling me "Halli"", not "fan-qui" for days now. Her eyes seemed bigger, and suddenly I realised, before she turned her head away sharply, it was because there were tears in them.

"For God's sake!" says I, stepping up. "Here, come down this minute! Come down, I say!"

She slipped over the edge of the cart and leaned against it with that artless elegance that could make me come all over of a heat, and looked sullenly down at me. "What the devil's the matter?" says I. "Why won't you come in?"

"It is not fitting," says she stubbornly, and brushed a hand over her eyes, the bangles tinkling.

"Not fitting? What stuff! Why … Here!" A thought struck me. "It's not … anything you've done, is it? You're not … wanted … for being a bandit, I mean?"

She stared, and then laughed her great deep laugh, with her head back, the steel collar shaking above her bosom. Gad, but she was fine to see—so tall and strong and beautiful. "No, Halli', I am not … wanted." She shrugged impatiently. "But I would rather stay here. I'll wait."

Well, the darlings have their own reasons, so when the officer returned I went in alone, and was conducted through a long canvas passage ending in a heavy cloth of gold curtain. He drew it back … and I stepped from the world into the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace.

quote:

It was downright eery. One moment the noise and bustle of the camp, and now the dead silence of a spacious tent that was walled and roofed and even carpeted in yellow silk; filtered light illuminated it in a golden haze; the furniture was gilt, and the young clerk writing at a gold table was all clad in yellow satin. He put down his brush and rose, addressing me in good Pekinese:

"Mr Fleming?" He called it Fremming. "The gentleman from the Missionaries of London?" I said I was, and that I wished to see General Lee Hsiu-chen (whom I was imagining as Timoor the Tartar, all bulk and belly in a fur cloak and huge moustachios).

He indicated a chair and slipped out, returning a moment later in a brilliant scarlet silk jacket—the effect of that glaring splash of colour in the soft golden radiance absolutely made me blink. I rose, waiting to be ushered.

"Please to sit," says he. "This is not ceremonial dress."

He sat down behind the table, folded his hands, and looked at me—and as I stared at the lean, youthful face with its tight lips and stretched skin, and met the gaze of the intent dark eyes, I realised with shock that this slim youngster (I could give him several years, easy) must be the famous Loyal Prince himself. I tried to conceal my astonishment, while he regarded me impassively.

"We are honoured," says he. His voice was soft and high-pitched. "You were expected some days ago. Perhaps you have had a troublesome journey?"

Still taken aback, I told him about the river ambush, and how Szu-Zhan and her friends had brought me across country.

"You were fortunate," says he coolly. "The tall woman and her brigands have been useful auxiliaries in the past, but they are pagans and we prefer not to rely on such people."

Not encouraging, but I told him, slightly embarrassed, that I'd promised her two hundred taels, which I didn't have, and he continued to regard me without expression.

"My treasurer will supply you," says he, and at this point in our happy chat a servant entered with tea and tiny cups. Lee poured in ceremonious silence, and the trickle of the tea sounded like a thundering torrent. For no good reason, I was sweating; there was something not canny about this yellow silken cave with the scarlet-coated young deaths-head asking if I would care for distilled water on the side. Then we sat sipping in the stillness for about a week, and my belly gurgling like the town drains. At last he set down his cup and asked quietly:

"Will the Powers welcome our army at Shanghai?"

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I damned near swallowed my cup. If he handled his army as briskly as his diplomacy, it was a wonder there was an Imp soldier left in China by now. He waited until I had done hawking and coughing, and fixed me with those cold dark eyes.

"It is essential that they should." He spoke in the flat, dispassionate tone of a lecturer. "The war in China is foregone. The dragon will die, and we shall have killed it. The will of the people, inspired by God's holy truth, must prevail, and in the place of the old, corrupt China, a new nation will be born—the Taiping. To achieve this, we do not need European help, but European compliance. The Powers in effect control the Treaty Ports; the use of one of them, Shanghai, will enable us to end the war so much the sooner."

Well, that was what Bruce had said, and what we, in our neutrality, were reluctant to grant, because it would put a fire-cracker under Pekin's backside and Grant would have to fight all the way to the capital against an Imperial Government who'd feel (rightly) that we'd betrayed 'em to the Taipings.

"We are aware," he went on, "that Britain has a treaty with the Emperor and recognises his government, while not acknowledging even our existence. Perhaps she should recall the saying of an English poet, that treason cannot prosper because with prosperity it ceases to be treason. The Taiping is prospering, Mr Fleming. Is that not a sound reason why your country should look favourably on our request to come to Shanghai in peace and friendship?"

quote:

So much for Oriental diplomacy—long fingernails and long negotiations, my eye! There was his case, stated with veiled menaces, before I'd got a word in, let alone Bruce's "tactful persuasions". One thing was clear: this wasn't the time, exactly, to tell him we didn't want his long-haired gang anywhere near Shanghai.

"But there is more, much more, than mere practical interest to bind our countries." He leaned forward slightly, and I realised that behind the impassive mask he was quivering like a grey-hound. The dark eyes were suddenly alight. "We are Christian—as you are. We believe in progress, work, improvement—as you do. We believe in the sacred right of human liberty—as you do. In none of these things—none!" his voice rose suddenly "do the Manchoos believe! They respect no human values! Why, for example, do they shuffle and lie and evade, rather than permit your Ambassador to go to Pekin to sign the treaty to which they are pledged? Do you know?"

I supposed, vaguely, that they hoped we'd modify a few clauses here and there, if they put off long enough …

"No." His voice was level again. "That is not why. They would sign today—at Canton, or Shanghai, even Hong Kong. But not at Pekin. Why? Because if the ceremony is there, in the Hall of Ceremonies in the Imperial City, with your Lord Elgin and the Emperor, the Son of Heaven, face to face …" he paused, for emphasis "… then all China, All Under the Skies, will see that the Big Barbarian does not go down on his knees before the Celestial Throne, does not beat his head on the ground before the Solitary Prince. That is why they delay; that is why General Grant must go up with an army—because Lord Elgin will not kow-tow. And that they cannot endure, because it would show the world that the Emperor is no more than any other ruler, like your Queen, or the American President. And that they will not admit, or even believe!"

"Touchy, eh?" says I. "Well, I dare say —"

"Is a government to be taken seriously, that would risk war conquest, even—rather than forego the kow-tow to that debauched imbecile? Come to a Taiping prince, and he will take your Ambassador's hand like a man. That is the difference between a power blinded by ignorance, pride, and brutality, stumbling to its ruin, and a power enlightened, democratic, and benign. Allow me to pour you some more tea."

Now you'll have noticed that for all his cold, straight talk, he hadn't said they were coming to Shanghai willy-nilly; he'd urged powerful reasons why we ought to invite them, with a strong hint of the consequences if we didn't. Well, we'd have to wait and see, but it was plain I was going to have the deuce of a job fobbing him off for as long as Bruce wanted. This was the kind of steel-edged young fire-eater who'd want a straight answer, p.d.q., and wouldn't wear any diplomatic nods and winks. By gad, he wasted no time; how long had I been with him—ten minutes? Long enough to feel the force that had brought him in ten years from apprentice charcoal-burner and private soldier to the third place in the Taiping hierarchy behind Hung Jen-kan and the Tien Wang himself. It was there, in the cold soft voice and hard unwinking eyes; he was a fanatic, of course, and a formidable one. I didn't care for him one damned bit.

However, I had a part to play, even if we both knew it was a sham. So I thanked him for his illuminating remarks about his great movement, which I looked forward eagerly to studying while I was in Nanking. "I am only a traveller, as you know, but anxious to learn—and to pass on what I learn to my countrymen who are … ah, deeply interested in your splendid cause."

"What you will learn, and pass on," says he, "will include the elementary scientific fact that revolutions do not stand still. Tomorrow I shall conduct you personally to Nanking, where I hope you will do me the honour of being my personal guest for as long as it pleases you to stay."

So that was that, and he must have slipped a quick word to his treasurer, for in the outer tent—and how free and airy it seemed after that golden bath—a little chap was waiting with a bag of silver and a scroll, which I was invited to sign with a paint-brush. When in Rome … I painted him a small cat sitting on a wall, he beamed, and I strode out to the cart … which wasn't there.

Arbite posted:

Flashman has been knocked about converstionally to physically to conversationally again throughout and we've barely started.

Loyal & well read indeed, our Prince Li.


Hmm...


Ehhh...

Well, whoever mspaints the best small cat sitting on a wall in 48 hours gets the forum upgrade of their choice. That includes you, Uncle Wemus.

taarna23 posted:

Well, it's not sitting, but here we go anyway. MS Paint sure has come a looooong way since the last time I used it.

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I stopped dead, looking right and left, but there was no sign of it; nothing but the limitless lines of tents, with red-coats swarming everywhere. I turned in astonishment to the officer who had admitted me.

"The woman who was here, with the cart—the very tall woman … and six men —"

"They went away," says he, "after you had gone in to the Chung Wang. The woman left that for you."

He jerked his thumb at one of the little flagstaffs planted before the marquee; something was hanging on it, something shining. I went over and was reaching for it in bewilderment, when I made out what it was. Her steel-chain collar.

Wondering, I took it down, weighing it in my hands. Why the devil had she gone off—leaving this?

I stared at the officer. "She left this … for me? Did she say why?"

He shook his head, bored. "She told me to give it to the big fan-qui. Nothing more."

"But she said she was going to wait!"

"Oh, aye." He stopped in the act of lounging off. "She told me to say … that she would always be waiting." He shrugged. "Whatever that may mean."

There's a test which I apply to all my old flames, when I think back sentimentally to moments of parting, and it's this: if she'd been mine to sell, how long would I have kept her? In the case of Szu-Zhan, the answer is: another night or two at most. Aside from the fact that she was wearing me to a shadow, I needed no encumbrances in Taipingdom; by all ac-counts they were a strait-laced lot who mightn't take kindly to a bandit mistress, and I couldn't afford to lose face. Perhaps she sensed that, and had the good sense to make herself scarce.

Yet as I stood by the dusty camp road with the flags and ribbons fluttering in the evening wind, and the sun going down misty beyond the lines, I confess I felt a moment's pang at the thought that I'd straddled her for the last time. And I still keep the chain collar in my drawer upstairs, with the Silk One's scarf, Lakshmibai's stirrup, Lola's letter, Irma's little glove, and that mysterious red silk garter with "Semper Fidelis" embroidered on it that I'm damned if I can place. Anyway, it shows I still think kindly on Szu-Zhan.

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But even she pales in memory when I look back to that time, for now I was entering on one of the strangest episodes of my life, which I wouldn't believe myself if I were to read it in someone else's recollections, but which you may take my word for, because I was there, in the Eternal Kingdom of Heavenly Peace, and you know I ain't about to start stretching at this time of day. I can say I've walked in Nephelococcygia,*(* Cuckoo-City-in-the-Clouds (Aristophanes)). as old Arnold would have called it, and when I tell you that it beat even Madagascar for craziness, well … you shall judge for yourselves.

There was little sign of it during the two days I was in Lee's camp, and as I compared the tales I'd heard with what I was now seeing for myself, I wondered if perhaps the Taipings hadn't been grossly misrepresented by Imp and foreign propagandists. That they were savage and bloodthirsty, I knew from the journey up—but what Oriental army is not? They were no mere barbarian horde, though, but a splendidly-disciplined force far more formidable than we had imagined. As for their lunacy, I'd spoken with one of their great men, and found him sane and intelligent enough, if a bit of a zealot. Very well, their Heavenly King might be a barmy recluse with odd notions of Christianity, but it all seemed a far cry from the days when the early Wangs, or princes, had been as crazy as he was, and went about calling themselves Kings of the East, West, North, and South, and murdering each other right and left. The titles of their successors were undoubtedly odd—Shield King, and Assistant King, and Heroic King, and Cock-eyed King (that is true, by the way), but if their Loyal Prince, General Lee, was anything to go by, they were business-like enough. So I reasoned, and the shock was all the more unexpected when it came.

We went into Nanking on the second afternoon. Lee, borne in a chair of state by Taiping stalwarts, was magnificent in yellow robes and satin boots, wearing a gold crown in the shape
of a tiger with ruby eyes and pearl teeth, and carrying a jade sceptre; this, he explained, was ceremonial dress for a council of all the Wangs, who would deliberate on what should be done now that the Imps had been driven from the Yangtse Valley. Like marching on Shanghai, no doubt.

We made a brave procession, with a company of red-coat spearmen marching ahead, singing "Who would true valour see" in Chinese, and damnably off-key, and in the rear a squadron of mounted bowmen in backs-and-breasts, mighty smart—I'd noted that the Taipings had comparatively few hand-guns, but artillery by the park. I rode a Tartar pony beside Lee's chair, so that he could point out such objects of interest as the distant Ming Tombs, one of the wonders of ancient China, and the huge siege-works from which the Imps had been expelled two weeks earlier, massive entrenchments bigger than anything I saw later in the Civil War or in France in '70, and filled now with thousands upon thousands of decaying corpses raked together from the battlefields which extended for miles around. The stench was appalling, even with armies of coolies burying for dear life, with quicklime by the cart-load. Lee said it was nothing to '53, when the river was so solid with corpses that boat traffic had had to he suspended.

Nanking lies on the Yangtse bank, girdled by hills, and long before we reached it we could see those famous beetling walls, sixty feet high and forty thick, which enclose the city in a great triangle twenty miles about. It's one of the finest cities in China today, but when we'd passed through the long tunnel at the south gate I was shocked to find myself gazing on a scene of ruin and desolation. The suburb had been razed flat, and was swarming with crowds of miserable-looking serfs labouring at nothing, so far as I could see, under the direction of Taiping troops; starving beggars everywhere, ragged children played among the pot-holed streets and piles of rubble; all was foul, muddy, stinking squalor.

quote:

Any doubts I might have had about the social nature of the Taiping revolution were dispelled in the next hour. The Great Kingdom of Heavenly Peace obviously consisted of two classes: the State (the Wangs, the officials, and the army) and the populace, who were the State's slaves. Everyone, you see, must work, according to his capacity, but he ain't paid. How does he feed and clothe himself, you ask? He has no money, since it and all his valuables and property have been confiscated by the State, but there are no shops anyway, since all is rationed and distributed by the State. He is thus free of all care and responsibility, and can give his mind to work and absorbing the precepts, decrees, and heavenly thoughts of the Tien Wang, or Heavenly King. And if the rations are shorter and the work harder and the laws more savage than under the evil Imps—well, there's a good time coming, and he can take comfort in the knowledge that what is happening to him is "correct". The foul old system has given way to Heavenly Peace, and while the baskets of heads are even more numerous than in Shanghai, and there's no lack of malefactors crawling about in wooden collars placarded with their offences (disobeying "celestial commands", mostly), well, there's a certain tranquillity about that, too. At least every man-jack had his wooden token with the Heavenly Seal on it, to prove his existence and to use as a passport in and out of the city—what happened to anyone who lost his token I don't care to think.

But if the folk were ground down in misery, the military were riding high, and no mistake. I recall one splendid figure in crimson coat and hood, marking a subordinate Wang, mounted on a mule and attended by three skinny urchins carrying his sword, his flag (each Taiping officer has a personal flag), and his umbrella; all three, I was informed, aspired to being "ta-jens" (excellencies) some day, like their master, with power of life and death over all despised civilians—such as another urchin sitting naked in the gutter offering stones for sale. I was so bemused by this that I bought one (and still have it) amidst the laughter of Lee's retinue; only later did it occur to me that it must be a State stone, which the little bugger had no right to be selling, presumably. He probably owns half Nanking by now. It's pleasant to think that I may have founded his commercial career.

Lee didn't seem to notice the filth and poverty of the state he'd been extolling to me two days earlier, but he drew my attention to the incessant drum and gong signals booming across that muddy desolation, and to the fluttering coloured flags on the walls relaying messages to the central watch-tower ahead; all was efficiency and discipline where the military were concerned, with battalions of red-coats chanting at their drill, and there were thousands of off-duty Taipings sauntering among the coolie crowds; I reckon every fourth man was a soldier—which explains why the slave population voiced no audible discontent.

All this was plainly the "progress, work, and improvement", to say nothing of the "sacred right of human liberty", which Lee had described to me. Now I beheld proof of his "benign enlightened democratic" government, as the ruins gave way to the splendid new palaces and offices being built in the city centre for the Wangs and their favoured subordinates. We passed through broad, well-kept streets, flanked by magnificent yellow walls, with lofty minarets and towers beyond, tiled in red and green and lavishly decorated; extensive gardens were being laid out by coolies hard at it with mattocks and spades, scaffolding clung to the new buildings like spiders' webs, and great loads of brick and paint and timber and tile were everywhere to be seen. The place was humming like a beehive; well, thinks I, if this is the revolution, I'm all for it.

To remind everyone of what a bloody good idea it all was, every other street corner had an official orator reading out His Heavenly Majesty's poems and meditations to rapt crowds of soldiers and officials and a few hang-dog peasants, all no doubt reflecting what fine transcendental stuff the monarch was turning out these days.

Author's Note posted:

One revolution is probably very much like another, and readers of Flashman's narrative will no doubt detect resemblances between Taipingdom and Communist China a few decades ago. The Taipings were, of course, a socialist movement (at the risk of attracting thunderous denunciation, it may be said that certain aspects of Soviet life today awake more echoes of Tsarist Russia than a modern Russian might care to admit). This is not the place to labour the point; sufficient to say that the pronouncements of the Heavenly King seem to have been received with the same kind of reverence later accorded to the thoughts of Chairman Mao. (Dr Sun-yat-sen, the father of the Chinese Republic, may be seen as an interesting link between the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace and modern China; he was the nephew (one historian says the son) of a Taiping rebel, and in his early days described himself as "the new Hung Hsiu-chuan" who would expel the Manchus.)

Uncle Wemus posted:

taarna23 posted:

Son of a Vondruke! posted:

Genghis Cohen posted:

Well crap I'm not going to try now am I?

Son of a Vondruke! posted:

....I saw Taarna's drawing as she was doing it and thought "Why bother? I'm not beating that".

Arbite posted:

Oh, is there a recording or even timelapse of you drawing it? I'd be interested in seeing that one come together in paint myself.

Arbite posted:

Anyway, by acclaim and my agreement the winner is Taarna23, congratulations! Please let me know which upgrade you want and I'll grab it for you.

Oh, is there a recording or even timelapse of you drawing it? I'd be interested in seeing that one come together in paint myself.

taarna23 posted:

As jealous as I am of Vondruke's avatar, a platinum upgrade would be nice. <3

Arbite posted:

Sounds good, just let me know where to send the gift certificate.

taarna23 posted:

My email is *redacted.* No spam please, kind forum peeps. XD

quote:

"The Grand Palace of Glory and Light," says Lee, as our cavalcade turned a corner, "the earthly residence of the Tien Wang," and I had to admit that it laid over everything we had seen before. There was a forty-foot yellow wall emblazoned with ferocious dragons and hung with yellow silk scrolls of His Majesty's ghastly poems in vermilion ink; a vast gilded gateway guarded by cannon and splendidly-caparisoned sentries with matchlocks; and through the gate you caught a glimpse of the palace itself, a half-completed monstrosity of minarets and peaked roofs, tiled in every conceivable hue, with dragon designs and silken banners and revolting Chinese statuary; it must have covered acres, and was slightly more grandiose than the Taj Mahal, if in more questionable taste. There was even an enormous granite boat to commemorate the Heavenly King's arrival in the city in '53—the real boat was rotting in a shed round the hack.

We dismounted before a low wall dividing the length of the street—the quality use the palace side, and the rabble t'other, and if the latter stray the guards beat 'em to pulp in the name of democracy. Lee led the way through the gate and then through a series of courts and gardens of dwarf shrubs, discoursing as he went—and it was now that I got the unexpected shock I mentioned earlier. For after some commonplace remarks about the building, he suddenly says:

"In describing this as His Majesty's earthly residence, I do not imply any earthly term to his existence. He is, as you know, immortal, but a time will come when he decides to take up permanent abode in Paradise. As it is, he makes frequent visits there, in his Dragon Chariot, for discussions with God. Of late his wife has accompanied him on these excursions to Heaven, and conversed with the Heavenly Father and the Elder Brother Jesus."

I wondered if I'd misheard, or if he was speaking symbolically or even with irony. But he wasn't.

quote:

He went on, conversation-ally:

"It is a gratifying demonstration of the ordained equality of the sexes in the Heavenly Kingdom that the Heavenly King's consort enters so fully on his affairs. It was she, you know, who received the divine command that henceforth the Tien Wang should devote himself to meditation—apart from such duties as annotating the Book of Revelation—so that he may be fully prepared to take his place with the Junior Lord, his son, in Paradise, and sit with God and the Elder Brother."

"I see", seemed the best response with which to cover my sheer amazement and alarm. Until now, this apparently normal young man had spoken sanely and rationally, and here, suddenly, without a gleam in his eye or foam on his lips, he was talking the most outrageous balderdash. I knew that from all accounts the Heavenly King was as mad as a senile Sapper, but this was one of his foremost generals! Could he conceivably believe this bilge about dragon chariots and tete-a-tetes with the Almighty, with Mrs Heavenly King going along, presumably to help with the service of tea and ginger biscuits?

Hesitantly, and in the hope of receiving an answer that would restore my faith in Lee's sanity, I inquired how old his Heavenly Majesty might be, and when he could be expected to go aloft permanently, so to speak. I was a fool to ask.

"In earthly terms," says Lee placidly, "he is forty-seven, but in fact he was born out of the belly of God's first wife before Heaven and Earth existed. How else could he have observed all the events of the Old Testament, and Jesus Christ's descent to earth, before deciding to manifest himself in 1813? As to when he will sit with the Heavenly Family permanently, and shine on all lands and oceans, we cannot tell. The Heavenly South Gate will open one day; in the meantime, we must all fight valiantly for eternal glory."

"There's no doubt of that," says I. Was he having me on? Or did he simply repeat this moonshine because it wasn't safe to do otherwise? It's hard enough to read a Chinaman's thoughts, but I had a horrible feeling he meant every word of it. Dear God, were they all non compos mentis?

Author's Note posted:

Flashman's description of Loyal Prince Lee (Li-Hsiu-ch'eng), Chung Wang and Taiping commander-in-chief, requires some qualification. Whatever Flashman may have thought (and he seems to have been in some doubt), Lee was certainly not mad. A former charcoal burner who had joined the Taipings as a private soldier, the Chung Wang was the best of the rebel generals, and many authorities believe that had he had sole control of the movement, the revolution would have succeeded. An intelligent, en-lightened, and (at least by Taiping standards) humane soldier, Lee had a sincere belief in the Taiping mission, and in the bond of Christianity which he supposed should exist between the Taipings and the foreign powers; in the latter he was to be bitterly disappointed. He was said to be egotistical and jealous (particularly of Hung Jen-kan, the Taiping Prime Minister), but the impression left by Lindley is of a courteous, capable, and thoroughly rational man. He also seems to have been a good administrator, unlike most of his fellow-generals. Flashman's physical description is close to Lindley's.

quote:

He left me with these uncomfortable thoughts, in a small outer palace, with an escorting officer, while he went in to the Wang council, and no doubt to hear an account of what they'd had for luncheon in Heaven yesterday. Nor did my surroundings do anything to quiet my fears; we were in a fairly filthy audience chamber, decorated with the crudest kind of drawings, gilded lanterns, and tatty flags and bunting, preside
d over by a grinning young imbecile who was plainly far gone with opium—which I, remembering that it was a capital offence, thought odd until I learned that he was the acting Prime Minister, "the Son of the Prince of Praise". He wore a filthy silk robe and a big embroidered dragon hat with a little bird on top, and was surrounded by officials; there was also a half-company of troops posted round the hall—filthy, slovenly brutes quite unlike the smart Taipings of Lee's camp.

My guiding officer presented me to this beauty, who giggled vacantly, invited me in a slurred, stuttering voice to pass into the dining-room next door, apologised for having no strong drink to offer me, and at the same time reached under his table and handed me out a bottle of London gin. I declined courteously, and passed the time studying a great wall map of the world—or rather, of "The Entire Territory of the Heavenly Kingdom to Endure for a Myriad Myriad Years". It showed China as a perfect square, with Nanking in the middle, but no sign of Pekin; Japan was a speck, Britain and France small blobs in the top corner, and a smear to one side proved to be the State of the Flowery Flag, or U.S.A. to you. The rest of the world had apparently been suppressed by heavenly decree. (We are the Red-haired State, by the way, and according to a scroll beside the map which my guide translated, we are the most powerful country apart from China, on account of our correct methods, shrewdness, dishonesty, and refusal to be subjugated.)

There was a great inner arch from the chamber, and through it, across an open court, could be glimpsed the gateway to the Inner Palace, with "Sacred Heavenly Door" inscribed above, and two enormous painted dragons, one eating the sun and the other pursuing a shrimp. I was pondering the mystical meaning of this when a most unholy din broke out from the Inner Palace—guns firing, drums rolling, cymbals clashing—and across the courtyard passed a procession of women bearing steaming golden dishes (bad pork and cabbage, by the odour) in at the Sacred Heavenly Door. This, says my escort, was the signal that the Heavenly King was going to dinner, drawn by women in his Dragon Chariot; the guns and drums would continue until he had finished. I asked if we could go in for a peep, and he looked shocked.

"Only the thousand women attending His Heavenly Majesty are permitted in the Inner Palace," says he. "The presence of men—except for the Wangs and certain great ones—would disturb his constant labour of writing decrees, revising the Scriptures, and conceiving new precepts. If we are privileged, we may presently hear the result of his morning's meditation."

Sure enough, he'd barely finished speaking when trumpets blared from the Inner Palace gateway, and across the court came the most stunning Chinese girl, all in green silk and carrying a golden tray with a yellow silk scroll.

"The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees!" cries my chap eagerly, and he and every soul in our audience chamber dropped to his knees yelling "Ten thousand Years! Ten thousand Years!", the only exceptions being the ignorant foreigner Flashy, who stood admiring the approaching beauty, and the deputy Prime Minis-ter, who fell flat on his face and was sick.

The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees sashayed in like the Queen of Sheba, unrolled her scroll, glanced round superciliously (with a brief frown at the leering barbarian), and in a high sing-song voice read out the Heavenly King's last thought before luncheon: it was a decree announcing that since his birthday fell next week (renewed yells of "Ten thousand Years!") all the Senior Wangs might take another ten wives in addition to the eleven they had already, while Lesser Wangs would have their ration increased from six to nine. The public (who had one wife if they were lucky) were not mentioned.

Thunderous applause greeted this announcement (though what they had to cheer about wasn't clear to me), and the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees handed her scroll to a grovelling minion, smiled graciously, shot me another reproving look, and made her stately way back to the palace, twitching her shimmering rump as she went. Observing this, and reflecting on the new decree, which all present were hailing with enthusiasm, I made a mental salute to the Taiping Rebellion—like all revolutionary movements (and for that matter all governments) it was plainly designed to ensure the rulers an abundance of fleshpot, while convincing the ruled that austerity was good for the soul. But barring the Papists, I couldn't think of a regime that had the business so nicely in hand as this one.

Author's Note posted:

Flashman's description of Nanking and what he saw there is so detailed that it really requires foot-noting throughout. To save space, it should be said that everything which he saw and heard in the city can be verified from other sources, principally Thomas W. Blakiston's Five Months on the Yangtze, 1862, which contains, among much other information, R. J. Forrest's account of a progress through the city almost identical to Flashman's. Forrest corroborates virtually everything, from the street scenes, the ante-rooms of he Heavenly King's palace, and social conditions, to the furnishings and life-style in the homes of the Taiping leaders. Flashman's personal adventures are, of course, another matter, but for the rest, from the Taiping soldier with his attendant urchins to the bottles of Coward's mixed pickles in Jen-kan's living-room, the author can be accepted as an accurate reporter. (See also Wolseley, Story of a Soldier's Life, and other works cited in these notes.)

Arbite posted:

And now we get to see the innermost heart of the rebellion.



The knots that rational believers tie behind their eyes is nothing new.



Nothing like the view from the top to clear your head. Let's all try that and continue in these halls next time.

quote:

Needless to say, I kept the thought to myself, although I couldn't resist trying to draw Lee gently when he came to bear me off to dinner at his own palace, apologising that it wasn't completed yet, in spite of the efforts of a thousand coolies who were slaving like beavers on it. I remarked that it was a fine system where the workers were content to live like pigs while providing their rulers with luxury—and not getting a penny piece for it. He just. shrugged, and says: "You English believe in paying for work. We know better—are we not a great empire?" It wasn't even cynical, just a plain philosophy, like his apparently sincere religious lunacy, and left me wondering harder than ever about him.

quote:

His was a modest enough spread, a mere gold and white bijou residence set in two or three acres of magnificent garden, with fantastically-dressed boys and girls swarming round us like gilded butterflies and ushering us to a charming little pavilion surrounded by a miniature rock and tree garden. Here a tiny child in yellow silk was waiting on the steps, and I was taken right aback when he bowed, held out a hand to me, and says in perfect English: "Good afternoon, sir."

I recovered enough to say: "Well, hollo yourself, young shaver, and see how you like it," and at that there was a burst of laughter from the pavilion, and out comes a jolly-looking Chinese, all portliness in a rather faded blue dragon robe. He patted the lad on the head and gave me an inclination that was half-nod, half-bow.

"My dear sir," says he, "you remind me that my own English is too correct, and that if my son is to master the language he must go to school to you." He chuckled and lifted the boy up in a muscular arm. "Eh, young shaver?"

This was astonishing, but now Lee came up and presented me, reciting the titles of the stout party, who stood listening with a quizzy grin: "… Founder of the Dynasty, Loyal Chief of Staff, Upholder of Heaven, Adjudicator of the Court of Discipline —"

"- and former secretary of the Artisans Christmas Club at Hong Kong!" cries the stout chap merrily.

"- His Excellency Hung Jen-kan, First Minister of the Heavenly Kingdom," concluded Lee, and I realised that this cheery, plump-faced man, bouncing the child on his shoulder, was the power behind the throne, the reputed brain of the Taiping, second only to the Tien Wang himself. They were setting out the best crockery for Flashy, weren't they just? As Lee ushered us into the pavilion, I was trying to remember what I'd heard of Jen-kan—that he'd spent his life mostly in Protestant Missions (which accounted for his excellent English), that he was the Heavenly King's cousin, but had taken no part in the revolution until a year ago, when he'd turned up suddenly at Nanking. Since then he'd risen like a rocket to Supreme Marshal (Generalissimo, they call it); I wondered how Lee and the other Wangs felt about being so suddenly outstripped.

Four little tables, one apiece, had been set out for dinner in the pavilion. The small boy addressed me, airing his English, ceremoniously helped me to my place, and Jen-kan, grinning with proud delight, winked at me—a thing I'd never seen a Chinese do before.

"Forgive my son," says he, "but to speak English to an Englishman is for him a dream come true. I encourage him, for without English how can he hope to reap the benefit of Western education, which is the best in the world? Every child in China must learn English," he added gravely, "if only so that they may understand the jokes in Punch." And he roared with laughter, shaking in his chair.

It was extraordinary, from a Chinese—but as I soon learned, Jen-kan was an extraordinary man. He knew the world, and had his feet on the ground; the bright brown eyes, which vanished in the fat, good-natured face when he laughed, were deep and shrewd, and he thought more like a Westerner than any Oriental I ever knew. Here's one that matters, I thought, listening as he gassed non-stop, mostly in Chinese for Lee's benefit, but now and then forgetting himself into English, with splutters of mirth. Lee sat impassive, being the perfect host, inviting me to dishes, deprecating the food—which was superb, I may say. It came in nine little petal-shaped dishes to each table, the petals fitting together to form a perfect rose as the meal progressed. No chopsticks, either, but Sheffield knives and silver forks and spoons; several of the dishes were Western, in politeness to me, I fancy. There was wine in gold cups held in enamelled silver cases—sherry, if you please, from bottles with wrapped paper plugs instead of corks. I had thought liquor was forbidden in the Taiping; Jen-kan pealed with mirth.

"So it is! But I told the Tien Wang, if I cannot drink, I cannot eat. So he gave me a special dispensation. Unlike this law-breaker." And he nodded at Lee, who surveyed him in silence and poured more sherry.

When the meal was done, and the servants had brought hot Chinese wine and cheroots, Jen-kan nodded to his son, who rose, bowed to me, and piped: "Sir, I take my leave, charmed by your conversation and by the courtesy with which you have tolerated my clumsy attempts at your glorious language."

"My son," says I, "you speak it a dam—a great deal better than most English boys twice your age." At which he shot his father a delighted glance before composing himself and marching out. Jen-kan proudly watched him go, sighed contentedly, bit a cheroot, glanced at Lee, and then at me. Business, thinks I, and braced myself. Sure enough, Lee asked if I had given thought to what he'd said at our first meeting: what was the likely British reaction to a Taiping march on Shanghai?

I was starting to say that as a humble traveller from the London Missionary Society I could only speculate, when Jen-kan broke in.

"We can dispense with that … Sir Harry." He chuckled at my expression of dismay. "If Mr Bruce wishes his intelligence chief to pass incognito, he should choose one whose likeness has not appeared so frequently in the picture papers. I acquit him of trying to impose on us, but he should remember that the Illustrated London News may not be unknown in Pekin. Now, may I say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance? I have been an admirer for years—ever since you dismissed Felix, Pilch and Mynn … in '42, was it not?" He beamed jovially on this reminder of how Englified he was, and since there was no use beating about, I shrugged modestly, and he put his elbows on the table, Western fashion.

quote:

"Good. Now we can talk plainly. The Loyal Prince has already given you reasons why you should welcome us at Shanghai. This may have led you to suppose that our arrival depends on Britain's attitude. It does not. We shall come when we are ready, in August, with or without British approval." He drew on his cheroot, regarding me benevolently. "Obviously we hope for it, and I am confident that when Mr Bruce realises that our occupation is inevitable, he will decide to welcome it. He will he in no doubt of our invincibility once you have reported to him; you have seen our army, and you will observe it in action when the Loyal Prince goes presently to expel the Imps from Soochow."

That was uncomfortable news, but I didn't let on.

"Mr Bruce will see that our final victory over the Manchoos is only a matter of time, and that opposition from Britain at Shanghai would be not only futile but impolitic. You will also inform him that, as an earnest of good will to Her Majesty's Government, our first act in Shanghai will be to place an order worth one million dollars for twenty armed steamships, which will greatly hasten the destruction of the Imperial forces."

He studied a moment, like a man who wonders if he's left out anything, and gave me his fattest smile. "Well, Sir Harry?"

So there it was, the big stick and a carrot, and my mission dead and buried. For plainly no persuasion of mine was going to keep the Taipings away from Shanghai; all Bruce's diplomatic step-dancing would be wasted on these fellows; they said, and they would do. Unless it was bluff, in which case counter-bluff might be in order … I ran cold sweat at the thought, knowing that what I said next might alter the history of China—God, what Napoleon would have given to be in my shoes, and how I wished he was.

"I'm obliged to your excellency," says I. "But do you think it wise to take Britain's reaction for granted?"

"I don't!" cries he cheerfully. "Whether you welcome or oppose us, we shall have Shanghai." Mildly he added: "The Loyal Prince's army will number not fewer than fifty thousand men."

"Fifty thousand men who've never met British or French regulars," says I, equally mildly. Not diplomatic, I agree, but I ain't partial to having the law laid down to me by fat chaps with yellow faces. This one just smiled and shook his head.

"Come, Sir Harry. A mere token garrison. Mr Bruce could not resist us even if he wished—which I am persuaded he does not."

Well, that was God's truth, but I had to play it out for what it was worth. I gave him my true-blue stare. "Possibly, sir. But if you're wrong, there exists a possibility that you'll find yourselves at war with Great Britain." Bruce would have swooned to hear me.

"Why?" This was Lee, sharp and intense, his lean face strained. "Why? What can it profit England to fight against fellow Christians? How can -?"

"Loyal Prince." Jen-kan raised a plump finger. "Our guest knows his people better than you do. So, with respect, do I. And they are the last I should try to … persuade, in normal circumstances. But the circumstances are not normal, Sir Harry," he came back to me. "Shanghai is not a British city; it is the Emperor's, and you are," he smiled apologetically, "only his tenants, in an upstairs room. Your lives and property will be safe from us—indeed, your traders will enjoy a freedom unknown under the Manchoos." He grinned a fat man's satisfied grin. "You will welcome us. Britain does not want another war in China—certainly not with a regime that offers million-dollar contracts. When did the Manchoos promise as much? They don't even like your opium!"

I waited until his laughter had subsided. "Well, sir, if that's the message I'm to take to Mr Bruce —"

"Yes, but not yet." He wagged a finger. "In August. In view of what you have said, it may be better if Mr Bruce has short notice of our intention. We don't wish him to have too much time to think, and possibly commit some indiscretion." He beamed shamelessly. "I am quite frank, you see. No, in August you will go back to Shanghai—with a Taiping army two days behind you. That will surely inspire Mr Bruce to a wise decision. And we shall be in good time before Lord Elgin reaches Pekin to conclude a treaty committing him to the losing side. All things considered, he may well decide not to go to Pekin at all."

He sat there, a Chinese Pickwick, smacking his lips over his hot wine, while I weighed the essential point.

"You mean I'm a prisoner here?"

"A guest—until August. Two months, perhaps? It will be a most pleasant holiday; I am selfish enough to look forward to it. Mr Bruce may wonder what has become of you, but he will hardly inquire after a mere traveller from the London Missionary Society." Oh, he was a right twinkling bastard, this one. "And you may take satisfaction that you are performing the duty he laid on you—of keeping the Taipings away from Shanghai for the present." That gave me a horrid start, but he went on amiably. "He will be able to pursue his policy of strict neutrality -- until August. Until then, we shall be doing what he wants; he will be doing what we want. It is very satisfactory."

He was right, of course. If Bruce knew the Taipings were dead set on Shanghai, he'd have time to reinforce, perhaps even send for Grant. Lull him with inaction, and when the blow fell in August he'd have no choice but to submit to Taiping occupation—although whether we'd accept that quite as tamely as Jen-kan supposed, I was by no means sure. One thing was plain: there wasn't a ghost of a chance of my escaping to warn Bruce ahead of the fair—not that I had the least inclination, you understand. I knew when I was well off, and would be well content to wallow for a few weeks in the luxuries of the revolution.

quote:

Of these there was no shortage at the pavilion to which Lee conducted me after Jen-kan had gone, jovial to the last. It was another bijou palace surrounded by dwarf gardens, and belonged to Lee's brother—a genial nonentity who was learning to write, I remember, labouring away at scrolls with a tutor. The apartments I was given were in exquisite taste; I recall the pink jade--writing set and inkwell, the sprig of coral mounted on a silver block with gold pencils thrust through the branches, the tiny crystal paperweights on the gleaming walnut desk. The fact that I remember such things is proof that I was feeling pretty easy at the prospect of my captivity; I should have known better.

Lee hadn't said a word beyond courtesies after our meeting with Jen-kan, but I sensed an unease in him, and wondered why. It was fairly plain that he disliked the Prime Minister jealously, and I'd no doubt that behind the scenes some very pretty clawing went on among the Wangs, in which I might conceivably be a useful pawn. There was no plumbing that, and since Taiping interest seemed to require my health and happiness, I didn't care much. But I could see Lee was anxious, and when he took leave of me that night he finally came out with it.

"In our discussion with his excellency, I sensed—correct me if I am mistaken—that you are not wholly convinced of our ultimate success." We were alone on the verandah, in the warm evening shadows, and as he turned those cold eyes on me I felt a prickle of disquiet. "I do not ask for a political judgment, you understand, but for a military opinion. You have seen the Imps; you have seen us. Do you believe we shall win?"

There was only one politic answer, and since it was what I believed, pretty much, I spoke straight out.

"Barring accidents, you're bound to. I'd not wager on the Imps, that's certain."

He considered this. "But you do not say that victory is assured, beyond all doubt?"

"It never is. But any soldier can see when the odds are in his favour."

"I can see more." The yellow-robed figure seemed to grow more erect, and his voice was hard. "I know we shall win." "Well, then, it doesn't matter what I think."

"But it does," says he, mighty sharp. "It matters what you tell Mr Bruce."

So that was the pinch. "I'll tell Mr Bruce what I've just told you," I assured him. "I believe he'll have every confidence in your success." I nearly added "provided you leave Shanghai alone, and don't provoke the foreign devils", but decided not to.

"Confidence," says he slowly, "is not faith. I could wish you had … absolute faith."

He was a fanatic, of course. "You can put more trust in my confidence," says I lightly. "Faith ain't a matter of counting guns and divisions."

He gave me another keen look, but left it there, and I'd forgotten all about it by the time I turned in. I was pleased to see that Taiping luxury didn't stop short of the bedroom door; they'd given me a cool, spacious chamber with screens onto the garden, and a great soft bed with red silk mattress and pillows—all that was lacking was the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees. I wondered dreamily as I dropped off if Lee's brother, being a lesser Wang, would care to rent out one of the new wives he'd just been awarded … or all three, and I could give him confidential reports on endurance, ingenuity, and carnal appetite. Flashy, riding examiner … Gold Medal, Nan-king Exhibition, 1860 … a pretty thought, on which I slid into a delightful dream in which the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees appeared as identical triplets who came gliding into the room in green silk dresses and steel-chain collars, bearing scrolls on golden trays, ranging themselves beside my bed and smiling alluringly down at me.

quote:

I was just debating whether to tackle 'em one at a time, or all three together, when I realised that I couldn't see their faces any longer, for they were all three wearing black hoods, which seemed deuced odd … and the green dresses were gone, too, under black cloaks …

I came awake an instant too late to scream. The black figures seemed to swoop down on me, steel fingers were on my mouth and wrists, a heavy cloth was whipped over my head, and I was dragged helpless from the bed by invisible hands.

There's no blind terror to compare with it—being hustled along, lurching and stumbling, by invisible attackers. You're lost, blind, and half-suffocated, you can feel the cruelty in the clutching hands, horrible pain and dissolution await you, and the only thing worse is the moment when the blanket comes off—which mine did before my assailants had taken twenty strides.

There was a yell and a clash of steel, a buffeting shock as my captors staggered, and I was crashing to earth, dragging the blanket away, to find myself rolling in a flowerbed, with one of my kidnappers clawing at me in the dark. I shrieked as I caught the flash of steel in the half-light, and then the knife-point was beneath my chin, and I was shuddering still, whispering entreaties for my life.

It ain't the best position to view a fatal mêlée that is going on a few yards away, with dark figures slashing and swearing in the shadows. I heard one horrid gurgle as a blade went home, caught the glittering arc of a curved sword swinging and the grating ring of the parry, but for the most part they fought in silence. Then the blanket was over my head again, and I was being rushed along, barking my shins and trying to yell for help, until they pulled up, a voice hissed: "Walk!" in Chinese, and I felt the prick of the point again, in my spine this time. I walked.

How far we went, I can't guess, but it must have been a good quarter of a mile before I felt paved stones under my feet, and presently was aware of bright light outside the blanket, and the sound of hushed voices. I was hustled up a few steps, and then there was carpet under my bare soles. We stopped, the knife was removed, and the gripping hands were withdrawn. I didn't stir, but stood shrouded and quaking for a good five minutes, when I was pushed forward again, over tiles and then on to another carpet. The blanket was whipped away, and I stood blinking in bright light. Facing me, breathing with an agitation to equal my own, although my bosom could never have heaved like hers, stood the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees.

Just for a moment I wondered if I was dreaming, but she was fully-clad, so it seemed unlikely. Deuced fetching, for all that, in a blue silk gown such as the Manchoo ladies wear, in which there are three or four skirts of varying lengths, with huge hanging sleeves, and her hair done up in high buns. She was one of your round-faced Chinese beauties, and none the worse for that, but my attention was distracted by the black-cowled figured at my elbow throwing back his hood, and I found myself gaping at General Lee Hsiu-chen.

"I apologise. It was necessary," says he, and I wasted no time in babbled questions. He'd tell me what he wanted me to know. He was breathing hard, and I saw a trickle of blood on the back of his hand. He nodded to the girl, and she walked away to a curtained arch at the end of the short, carpeted passage in which we stood. She waited there, head averted, and Lee spoke rapidly, getting his breath back.

"You are to be granted audience of the Heavenly King. It is a highly unusual honour. Few foreigners have seen him for many years. He understands that you are from the London Missionary Society. Say nothing of how you came here. Listen to him." He smiled, an odd, dreamy smile that sent chills up my back. "Yes. Listen to him. Do not be surprised if he talks all night. He does not tire as mortals do."

quote:

He gestured me towards the archway, and as I approached, the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees turned and held out a red silk robe—I was in the sarong I wear in bed—slipping it over my shoulders. Then she pulled back the curtains, beckoning me to follow.

The heavy smell of incense struck my nostrils as I saw we were in a small, low chamber hung round with dragon silks. At the far end was a deep divan caught in a pool of light from two tall candlebranches, and on it reclined a short, stocky figure in white silk embroidered in gold. He was nodding sleepily in that joss-laden air, while a female voice recited high and clear:

"The Heavenly Father, the Elder Brother, the Heavenly King, and the Junior Lord shall be Lords forever. The Heavenly Kingdom is established everywhere, and the effulgence of the Heavenly Family is spread upon all the Earth for all eternity."

The voice stopped, and the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees rustled forward, dropped to her knees half-way to the divan, kow-towed several times, and addressed the chap on the couch. I caught the words ". . London Missionary Society …" and then she was hurrying back to me, motioning me forward, indicating that I too should kow-tow. Well, the hell with him, Heavenly King or not. I walked forward, and got a close look at him as I began to make a half-bow—a tubby little Chink, with long dark hair framing a round, amiable face, a short sandy beard, and great dark eyes that shone in his pasty face like a hypnotist's, but with none of the force of your professional mesmeriser. They were placid, dreamy eyes, friendly and kind … and what the devil was I doing, kow-towing? I jumped up, vexed, and the big eyes smiled sleepily, holding mine. So that was his secret; you couldn't help looking at him. With an effort I tore my glance away—and realised that we were not alone. And I can pay no higher tribute to the Tien Wang's magnetic personality than to say that only now did I notice those others present.

One was kneeling on the couch, holding a scroll from which she had been reading. She wore a towering gilt headdress, like a pagoda, and a little fringe of gold threads round her hips. That was all her attire, and out of deference to royalty I modestly lowered my eyes, and found myself contemplating another naked female reclining at my feet—one more step and I'd have trod on her buttocks. I half-started back, afraid to look in case there were more bare houris perched on the candelabra. But there were just the two, twins by the look of them, still as superbly-shaped statues, lovely faces intent on the man on the couch, and apparently unaware of my existence. Reluctantly, I looked back at him, and he smiled vacantly.

"Welcome, in the peace of God," says he, and indicated a silken stool by the couch. It was a deep, liquid voice, with a curious husky quality. I sat, uncomfortably aware that the reclining poppet was only inches from my foot, and that if I looked straight ahead my horizon was voluptuously filled by the charms of the kneeling nymph. It's hell in the Taiping, you know. Not that I bar contemplating the undraped female form, but there's a time and a place, and heaven knew what I'd interrupted. I wondered if these were two of his reputed eighty-eight wives, or if he, too, had been voted a few spares, next week being his birthday and all. Good heavens—was it possible one of them was for me? I didn't like to ask, and I didn't get the chance, for he fixed me with those luminous, empty eyes and his melancholy smile, and began to speak to me. My heart was hammering, what with the knowledge that this was the Tien Wang, the Chinese Messiah, one of the most powerful men on earth, and that what passed between us might be vital … Bruce's instructions … my mission … That, and the nearness of those mouth-watering little flesh-traps—d'you wonder I was sweating? It was like a wild dream: the sweet, husky voice, pausing every now and then as though to compel an answer, the blindly shining eyes, the heavy reek of incense, the silk edges of the stool hot under my hands, the satin gleam of bums, bellies and boobies in the candle-shine, the soft lunatic babble which I'd not believe if I didn't remember every word:

Author's Note posted:

The character and personality of Hung Hsiu-chuan, inspirer and leader of the Taiping Rebellion, remain a mystery which Chinese scholars are still working hard to solve, chiefly by examination of the writings attributed to him. Obviously he was one of these rare, unfathomable folk with the gift of communicating religious zeal and inspiring devotion in a way which is hardly understood even by those who know them intimately. Hung's case is complicated by the fact that he was, by any normal standards, quite mad, and his condition seems to have deteriorated with time. Although almost a recluse at Nanking, he was seen by visitors on occasion; he is described as being about five feet five inches tall, well-built and inclining to stoutness, with a handsome, rather round face, sandy beard, black hair, and piercing dark eyes. He was said to be physically very strong, with a forceful personality. At the time of his meeting with Flashman he was 47 years old.

quote:

Tien Wang: … The London Missionary Society. Ah, yes but I do not remember you … only Dr Sylvester, my dear old friend … (Long pause)

Flashy: Ah, yes … your majesty. Sylvester. To be sure.

T.W.: Dr Sylvester … how long? How long? (Goes into trance)

F. (helping matters along): Couple of months, perhaps?

T.W. (reviving vaguely): You have spoken with Dr Sylvester recently? Then you are greatly blessed. (Beatific smile) For you have made the Journey. I felicitate you.

F.: Sorry?

T.W.: The Journey to the Celestial Above. I, too, have spoken with Dr Sylvester in Heaven, since his earthly death in 1841. Soon the portals will open for us all, and we shall rest in the Divine Halls of Eternal Peace. Have you visited Heaven often?

F.: Not to say often. Nothing like your majesty … weekends, that sort of thing. Just to see Sylvester, really … oh, God …

T.W.: How well I recall his discourse … illuminating … constructive … wise …

F.: Absolutely. Couldn't get enough of it. (Long pause, during which F.'s attention wanders)

T.W.: His humanity was equalled only by his scholarship. Was there a fruit of learning that he had not plucked? Divinity … philosophy … theology … metaphysics …

F. (musing): Tits. (in confusion) No, I mean metaphysics! Geometry, anything … he knew it all!

T.W. (benignly): Soon we shall join him, when we have made the final Journey, but only after long and laborious struggle. When you first visited Heaven, were you given new bowels?

F.: Eh? Oh … no, no, I wasn't. I wasn't considered worthy, you see … your majesty. Not then. Not for new bowels.

T.W.: Take heart. I too was rebuked when I first entered the Golden Doors. Jesus, my Elder Brother, was angry because I had not learned my Bible lessons well. He was correct. We must all learn our Bible. (Long pause)

F. (desperate): Moab is my washpot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe. Er … Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, thing …

T.W.: I remember how kind Jesus's wife was … and when my heart and entrails had been removed, I was given new ones, of shining red.

F.: Red, eh?

T.W.: And God gave me a sword to exterminate demons … and a seal of authority. The demons transformed themselves eighteen times, as they have power to do.

F.: Yes, yes … eighteen. Shocking.

T.W.: But I drove them down to Hell, and the Heavenly Mother gave me fruits and sweets. As I ate them, marvelling at their savour, God traced the Devil's misdeeds to errors in Confucius, and rebuked him. But Confucius defended himself vehemently.

F. (indignant): He did, did he?

T.W.: Then Jesus and the Angels joined in against Confucius, who tried to sneak away to join the Devil, Yen-lo, but he was caught and brought back and beaten. (Smiling blankly) But at last God allowed him to sit in Heaven, in recognition of past merits.

F. (doubtful): Well …

T.W.: Yen-lo is the Serpent-Devil of the Garden of Eden …

F.: Is he? Ah!

T.W.: … and when Eve heeded his words, she was driven forth, and her children were drowned in the Great Rain. But Yen-lo seeks ever to steal men's souls, ensnaring their senses with beautiful temptations … there were beautiful hand-maidens in Heaven …

This seemed to give him an idea, for the husky voice, which had been droning away as at a lesson learned, trailed off, and he turned to stare at the splendid naked nymph kneeling beside him. It was the first sign of intelligence I'd seen in him, for he was plainly madder than Bedlam; his mouth twitched, and he came up from his reclining position to gape, and then to reach out and fondle her neck and shoulder and arm. She stayed stock-still; he leaned closer, gaping, and I had to strain to hear.

quote:

"… we must strive to discern false beauty from true," he muttered, "and manfully resist Yen-lo, seeking solace only in that which is pure. So we should study the Book of One Hundred Correct Things. Let us hear now how we may resist temptation."

I'd have thought it was the last thing he needed to hear just then, but it was evidently a cue, for the kneeling beauty came to life with a sudden shudder that caused his Heavenly Majesty to grunt alarmingly and gape wider than ever. She lifted her scroll and began to read in a shrill, breathless little voice:

"Temptation must be eradicated from the world, and from the human mind. By sight, by scent, by touch may temptation be aroused. Temptation is caused by the original sin of lust, in the beginning of the world."

Well, no one was going to argue with that, least of all Flashy, grinding his teeth, or the Tien Wang, staring and hanging on every word, so to speak. Then he lay back with a gentle groan, as she leaned forward over him, reading rapturously.

"Temptation results from indecision. As a homeless person wanders, seeking relief, so the unstable mind is always subject to temptation, which beguiles the senses of the unwary, or," her voice sank to a whisper, "those who lack the power of decision."

She sighed convulsively, no doubt at the pathos of the thing, and with difficulty I restrained a sharp cry. The Tien Wang, on the other hand, emitted a low, percolating sound, staring up at them like one who lacked the power of decision but would get round to it presently.

"A mind lured by temptation will deteriorate from day to day," whispers the reading girl soulfully, and shook her pagoda, which tinkled. "Conscience will perish. Ah, beware when con-science perishes, for then … then lust will grow."

There was much in what she said, as the veins standing out on my bulging forehead testified. She'd been practically suffocating him, but now she straightened up, rolling her scroll, and his majesty gave a little whimper, and reached up a pawing hand. At the same moment the female at my feet stirred, gliding up to rest her arms on the divan, blast her, her hand straying on to his knee. He gaped vacantly at her, going red in the face and breathing with difficulty, looked back at the reading girl, who was opening another scroll, and began to growl—whether it was possible for his mind to deteriorate any further was doubtful, but plainly conscience was about to perish.

"As lust grows, and conscience dies, the Devil will seize his opportunity," croons the reading hussy, and I contemplated her twin's alabaster bottom, poised within easy reach, and wondered if I dared play the Devil myself. In the nick of time I recalled that this panting idiot on the couch was the monster who had slaughtered millions and took heads off for adultery; God knew what he did to molesters of the Heavenly Harem. I bit my knuckles instead, watching helpless as the reader reached her peroration; the brute was dazedly pawing at her with one hand while the other clutched at her twin, who seemed to be trying to climb into his lap. Suddenly the reading girl flung aside her scroll and lunged down at him, babbling:

"Suppress temptation! Throw out evil! Cleanse the heart! So the felicity of Paradise will be won! Everyone shall conquer temptation, and having thus strengthened himself, will be able to attack the small demons! Universal peace will follow!"

And I've no doubt it did, to judge by the gasps and sobs and rhythmic pagoda tinklings which pursued me as I fled a-tiptoe for the archway. Well, it would have been damned bad form to stay, and I swear to God I couldn't have—not without committing the fearful lèse-majesté of plunging into the mêlée crying "Me, too!" Not that they'd have noticed, probably. The women were ecstatics, and as for that lecherous lunatic with his crimson bowels and visits to heaven—well, aside from being the starkest maniac I'd ever struck, he was also a damned poor host. And he had inspired the Taiping rebellion? It passed belief—but he did, and if you doubt one word of his conversation with me, or his concubine's recitation, you'll find every last syllable of them in scholarly works written about him by learned men—all except about Dr Sylvester, for whom I believe I'm the sole authority. And that, you'll allow, was the sanest part of it.

No—he was a raving, dangerous, dreadful madman, and one of the most diabolical powers ever loosed on a suffering world. Flung Hsiu Chu'an, the Coolie King. As to his depravity—in my eyes his one redeeming quality—I've told my tale, and you may put it in the balance between those who claim he was a celibate saint, and t'others who say he was topsides with Tiberius. I'll add only that no one disputes that he lived surrounded by a thousand women, eighty-eight of 'em "wives". And devil a thought for his guests.

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I emerged in the corridor panting like the town bull, to find the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees wide-eyed and palpitating anxiously; by George, she'll never know how close she came to being dragged off and ravished. But here was Lee, pale and eager.

"You saw him? He spoke with you? What did he say?" He gripped my arm in his excitement, and I had sense enough to take time to reply.

"General Lee," says I, gulping. "I've never seen or heard the like in my life."

He let out a hissing breath, and then smiled slowly. "I knew it. I knew it. He is like God, is he not?"

"He's certainly like nothing on earth," says I, and caught a drift of tantalising perfume from the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees, who had edged up, all eyes and ears. I gritted my teeth and tried not to notice her. "D'ye mind sending her away?" says I hoarsely. "After such an experience I find her presence … distracting." He snapped a word and she sped off, undulating in a way which brought sweat to my temples.

"I can see you are much moved," says Lee gently. "It was inevitable, but I am uplifted beyond all expression." He fairly glowed with holy zeal. "For now that you have seen him, you too have … faith."

It didn't sink in for a moment. "D'you mean to say," I croaked, "… that was why you had me brought … just to see … him?" I gaped at the man. "In God's name! Did you have to kidnap me? I'd have gone willingly if you'd —"

"There was no time to explain. It was necessary to be secret and sudden—as you saw. I had learned that there were those who would have kept you from his presence if they could. Fortunately, they failed."

"But … who were they? Why? See here, I might have had my throat cut by those swine, whoever —"

"It does not matter, now. For you have seen him, in his divinity. And now you, too, believe." He studied my face. "For you do believe, do you not?"

"By God, I do!" cries I fervently. What I believed, I wasn't about to tell him, which was that his Heavenly King and the whole kitboodle of them were cracked beyond repair. I'd have a line report to give Bruce, if ever I got out of their demented clutches. I shook my head like a man awe-struck. "General Lee," says I solemnly, "I am in your debt. You have opened my eyes to the full."

"No. He has done that," says he, looking like Joan of Arc.

quote:

Now you can tell your people what manner of being leads the Taiping. They will share your faith." He nodded, content. "And I can go to Soochow, and later to Shanghai, with a quiet mind. Whatever my enemies may wish, they cannot undo what has been done for you tonight."

"Amen," says I, and on that he said that henceforth I could stay at his brother's place in perfect safety, for now I'd seen the Heavenly King no one would molest me. I assured him again that it had been the biggest thing in my life, and because I'm cursed with curiosity, I asked him: "General—you have been privileged to see the Heavenly King countless times. Tell me, does he usually receive visitors … alone? Or does he have … er … attendants with him?"

He frowned, and then slowly shook his head. "Whenever I have stood in his divine presence," says he, "I have never been aware of any but him."

Which suggested either that I had caught his majesty off duty, so to speak, or that his faithful followers were so besotted with worship that they didn't notice, or didn't care, when naked trollops climbed all over him. Some damned odd cabinet meetings they must have had. One thing was sure, they didn't call Lee the Loyal Prince for nothing.

Now I've told you plain, at some length, of my first day and night in Nanking, because there's no better way of showing you what the Taiping was like, and in the two long months I was with them everything I saw merely went to confirm that first impression. I saw much of their city, of their crazy laws and crazier religion, of the might and ruthlessness of the military (when I was with Lee at the capture and sack of Soochow), of the blossoming incompetence of their top-heavy administration, of the abyss between the despotic, luxuriating rulers and the miserable slave populace in this glorious revolution dedicated to equality—it's all in my Dawns and Departures of a Soldier's Life (one of the volumes D'Israeli's bailiffs never got their hands on), and ain't to the point here. Enough to say that I recognised the Taiping as a power that bade fair to engulf China—and was already mad and rotten at the heart.

Don't mistake me; I don't preach. You know my morals and ideals, and you won't find the Archbishop shopping for 'em in a hurry. But I know right from wrong, as perhaps only a scoundrel can, and I'll say that there was great virtue in the notion of Taiping—if it hadn't somehow been jarred sideways, and become a perversion, so that the farther it went, the farther it ran off the true. One thing I knew I would tell Bruce: the Manchoos might be a corrupt, unsavoury, awkward crew, but we mustn't touch this ship of fools with a bargepole -- not even if the alternative was to go to war with them. And that was a daunting thought, for the one thing right about the Taiping was its army.

I saw that for myself when Lee took me to Soochow, the last big Imp foothold in the Yangtse valley, about thirty miles south of Nanking and one hundred and fifty from Shanghai. It was a strong place, with heavy fortifications on White Dragon Hill, and as soon as I saw them I put Lee down privately as a bungler who must have been lucky until now, for he'd brought hardly a gun with him. Twenty thousand good infantry, marching like guardsmen and chanting their war-songs, transport and commissariat as fine as you could wish for, the whole advance perfectly conducted—but when I looked at those crenellated walls, with the Imp gunners blazing away long before our vanguard came in range, and the paper tigers and devil banners being waved from ramparts crowded with men … well, it's your infantry you'll be wasting, thinks I. How long a siege did he anticipate, I asked him, and he smiled quietly and says:

"My banner will be on White Dragon Hill within three hours."

And it was. He told me later he had close on three hundred infiltrators inside the walls, disguised as Imp soldiers; they'd been at work with friendly citizens, and at the given time two of the gates were blown open from within, and the Taiping infantry just rolled in like a wave. I've never seen the like: those long ranks of red coats simply thundered forward, changing formation as they went, into two hammerheads that engulfed the gates, up went the black death banners, and heedless of the storm of shot that met them those howling devils surged into the city and carried all before them. The battle lasted perhaps an hour, and then the Imps wisely changed sides, and they and the Taipings sacked the place, slaughtering and looting wholesale. I wasn't inside the walls until next day, by which time it was a smoking, bloodstained ruin; if there was a living citizen left he wasn't walking about, I can tell you.

quote:

"Nothing can withstand the might of the Tien Wang," says Lee, and I thought, God help Shanghai. I realised then that my soldiering had been of the genteel, polite variety—well-mannered actions like Cawnpore and Balaclava and the Kabul retreat in which at least the occasional prisoner was taken. In China, the idea of war is to kill everything that stirs and burn everything that don't. Just that.

I was a week at Soochow with Lee, and then he sent me back to Nanking, to ponder and count the weeks till my release. I won't bore you with their passage; I was well housed and cared for at Lee's palace, feeding of the best, but nothing to do except loaf and fret and improve my Chinese, and devil a wench to bless myself with, thanks to their godless laws. Which, when I considered what was going on in the Grand Palace of Glory and Light, was enough to make me bay at the stars.

The only diversion I had while I ate the beansprouts of idleness and brooded lewdly on the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees and the Tien Wang's Heavenly Twins (I was never inside his palace again, by the way) was when Hung Jen-kan would have me over to his house for a prose. The more I saw of him, the better I liked him; he was stout and jolly and full of fun, and was plainly the only dog in the pack with two sane brains to rub together—damned good brains they were, too, as I discovered, and for all his jokes and guffaws he was a dangerous and ambitious man. He had great charm, and when you sat with him in his big cluttered yamen (for he kept nothing like the sybaritic state of the other Wangs; rude comfort was his sort) it was like gossiping with a chum in the gunroom: the place was littered with port bottles, full and empty, along with three Colt revolvers on the side-table, boxes of patent matches, a broken telescope, a well-thumbed Bible next to the Woolwich Manual of Fortification, a shelf packed with jars of Coward's mixed pickles, bundles of silver ingots tied with red waxed string and thrown carelessly on the bed, an old barometer, piles of French crockery, jade ornaments, tea-cups, a print of the Holy Well in Flintshire propped up against The Young Cricketer's Companion, and papers, books, and rubbish spread in dusty con-fusion.

And in the middle of it all, that laughing fat rascal in his untidy yellow robe, swilling port by the pint and eating steak with a knife and fork, pushing the bottle at me, lighting our cheroots, chortling at his own jokes, and crying thanks after his servants—who were the ugliest old crones imaginable, for Jen-kan of all the Wangs kept no harem, or affected any grand style. Aye, it was easy to forget that in little more than a year he'd climbed within a step of supreme power in this crazy revolution, and held in his podgy fingers all the reins of state.

Author's Note posted:

Hung Jen-kan (1822-64), Kan Wang (Shield King), Prime Minister and Generalissimo of the Taipings, is the most interesting and enigmatic of the revolutionary leaders. A cousin of the Heavenly King's, he studied with him at a Baptist mission in Canton (where he, too, failed his civil service exams), and became one of his first disciples, but was thought too young to join the revolution at its outset. In 1854, after working at a Protestant mission in Hong Kong, he tried to reach Nanking, but failed, and spent another four years in the colony with the London Missionary Society. In 1859 he succeeded in reaching Nanking, and within a year had become second only to his cousin in the revolutionary hierarchy. Favouritism aside, this meteoric rise can be attributed only to Jen-kan's native talent, and the advantage which worldly education had given him over the largely uneducated Taiping Wangs. With the deterioration of the Heavenly King, Jen-kan, with Lee, became the real head of the movement, and one can only speculate why they did not combine more effectively. Jen-kan was a strong man of vision and faith, and one of the few Taiping leaders with a real knowledge of affairs and the world outside China; he spoke English fluently, and like Lee wanted to improve Taiping relations with the European powers; he also wished to inculcate orthodox Protestant Christianity. Jen-kan was a stout, genial, outgoing personality, and from all accounts as pleasant as Flashman makes him sound. He seems to have been alone among the Taipings in genuinely detesting war (the quotation about a war of extermination is authentic), had a deep admiration of British education and institutions, and in his personal behaviour and tastes was perhaps closer to the West than the East; he certainly appears to have had a realistic grasp of foreign attitudes to China, particularly where trade was concerned. Flashman and Forrest agree on his manner and lifestyle; unlike the luxurious generals, he enjoyed a simple, rather untidy existence in his cluttered study, kept no harem, often ate European food, and ignored (as did many of the Wangs) the Taiping prejudice against alcohol. (See Blakiston, Forrest, and Appendix I.)

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The other Wangs were a surly crew of peasants beside him—Hung Jen-ta, the Heavenly King's elder brother, who gave himself ridiculous airs and sported silk robes of rainbow colours; Ying Wang, the Heroic King, who bit his nails and stuttered; and the formidable Chen Yu-cheng, who had abetted Lee in the great defeat of the Imps a few weeks before; he was from the same stable as the Loyal Prince, but even younger and more handsome, dressed like a plain soldier, never saying a word beyond a grunt, and staring through you with black snake eyes. They said he was the most ferocious of all the Taiping leaders, and I believed it.

One other I met at Jen-kan's house, a weedy, pathetic little lad of about eleven, tricked out in a gold crown and sceptre and a robe fairly crusted with jewels; everyone fawned on him and knocked head something extravagant, for he was the Tien Kuei, the Junior Lord, son of the Heavenly King—which made him Jesus's nephew, I suppose.

Possibly they all talked sense in the Council, with Hung Jen-kan, though I doubt it; in public their conversation seemed to consist of childish discussion of the Heavenly King's latest decree, or poem, or pronouncement, with misquoted references to the Scriptures every other sentence. It was like listening to a gang of labourers who'd got religious mania; it wasn't real; if I hadn't had Jen-kan to talk to, I believe I'd have lost all hold on common sense.

At least he could give me occasional news of the world outside, which he did very fairly and humorously (although if I'd known the thoughts that were passing behind that genial chubby mask I'd have got precious little sleep of nights). It was a waiting time, that early summer of '60, not only for me, but for all China. Elgin had arrived at last, and sailed north with Grant and the Frogs to the Peiho mouth, whence they would march 15,000 strong to Pekin in August, Jen-kan reckoned, though it was doubtful if they would get there before September. By then Lee would have launched his sudden stroke at Shanghai, forcing Bruce to choose one side or t'other at last; meanwhile Jen-kan was bombarding him with letters to which Bruce didn't reply. So there was a lull through June and July, with Grant and Elgin girding their loins to the north, and Bruce and the Taipings listening for each other at either end of the Yangtse valley. Only one minor portent disturbed the peace, and when Jen-kan told me about it, I couldn't believe my ears. But it was plain, sober, unlikely truth, as follows...

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With Shanghai in uncertainty, the China merchants there had got the notion to raise a mercenary force to help defend the city if the Taipings attacked. According to Jen-kan, it was a bit of a joke—a mob of waterfront rowdies, sailors, deserters, and beachcombers, everyone but the town drunk—oh, no, he was there, too, in force. There were Britons, Yankees, Frogs, wogs, wops, Greeks, every sort of dago—and who d'you think was at the head of this band of angels? None other than Mr Frederick Townsend Ward.

It just shows what can happen when your back's turned. How he'd graduated from steamboat mate to this new command, I couldn't imagine, but when they took the field in June it was the biggest farce since Grimaldi retired. For young Fred, not content with guarding Shanghai, led his amazing rabble upriver one fine night to attack a Taiping outpost at Sungkiang. They found the place, for a wonder, but most of 'em were howling drunk by the time they got there, and the Taipings shot the boots off them and they all tumbled back to Shanghai, Ward damning and blinding every step of the way.

But he didn't give up, not he. Inside the month he was back with another crew, sober this time, and most of 'em Filippino bandits, with a few American and British officers. He'd drilled some sense and order into them, God knows how … and they took Sungkiang, bigod, after a fearful cut-and-thrust in which they lost sixty dead and a hundred wounded—and friend Frederick got a hundred and thirty thousand bucks commission from the China merchants.

Jen-kan was disposed to laugh the whole thing off, but I wasn't so sure. It was beyond belief … and then again, it wasn't; I'd only to remember that bright eye and reckless grin, and thank God I was well clear of the dangerous young son-of-a-bitch. And take note, he'd done a small but significant thing: he'd knocked the first dent in the invincible Taiping armour, and started something that was to change the face of China. Little mad Fred. But at the time I knew only what Jen-kan told me, heaving with merriment at the thought of how affronted Lee would be to have this Yankee pup nipping his ankle. "Will he be more wary now, when he marches on Shanghai?" he wondered.

I was doing some wondering on my own account, as July wore out, for Lee was due to march in late August, with me two days ahead of him, and I was counting the time with a will. And then, just after the turn of the month, Jen-kan showed what lay behind his genial mask, and frightened the life out of me.

We were boozing in his yamen after luncheon, and he was telling me of Ward's latest exploit—a slap at another Taiping outpost, Chingpu, with three hundred men. Unluckily for him the rebels had ten thousand under two good leaders, Chow the Taiping, and Savage, a Royal Navy deserter; they'd torn Ward's attack to bits, killing about a hundred, and the bold Fred had been carried home with five wounds.

"But they say he will come back to Chingpu!" cries Jen-kan. "Poor fellow! Loyal Prince Lee himself has gone down from Soochow to take command; he will crack this Ward under his thumb-nail, and then …" he beamed, filling my glass, "… he will sweep on to Shanghai."

I sat up at this. "When do I go? Two weeks?"

He studied me for a long moment, with his fat crafty grin, and pulled his old robe round his big shoulders. "Let us talk outside … in English," says he, collaring the bottle, and we strolled out into the warm sunshine, Jen-kan blinking contentedly at his miniature garden—you know the kind of thing, from Chinese exhibitions: dwarf trees and flowers set among tiny streams and lakes and waterfalls, with doll's-house pagodas and bridges all to scale, like Lilliput.

"Why do we love things in little?" muses Jen-kan, admiring the line of tiny palms that fringed the garden. "Do they make us feel like giants … or gods, perhaps?"

quote:

He sipped his wine. "Speaking of gods, I have often meant to ask you … what did you think of the Heavenly King?"

Now, neither of us had ever mentioned my visit to the Palace, though I was certain he knew about it. And while he was no fanatic, like Lee, I supposed he must be devoted to the Heavenly Loose-screw, so I hesitated how to answer. He settled his broad bottom on a rock under a tree. "I ask, because I am curious to know what you will tell Mr Bruce."

"What d'you think I'll tell him?" says I, wary-like, and he grinned, and then chuckled, and finally laughed so hard he had to set down his glass. He blinked at me, his shoulders shaking.

"Why, that he is a debauched, useless imbecile!" cries he. "What else can you say, except that he is a poor deranged mystic, a hopeless lunatic who makes an obscene parody of Christianity? That is the truth, and that is what you will tell Mr Bruce!"

He took a deep swig, while I stood mum and a mite apprehensive; what he'd said was a capital offence in these parts, and for all I knew, listening might be, too. He shook his head, grinning.

"Oh, but you should have seen him once! In the old days. To know him then, my dear Sir Harry … I intend no blasphemy, but it was to understand the force that must have lived in Christ, or Buddha, or Mahomet. And now, poor soul … a mad shell, and nothing left within except that strange power that can still inspire devotion in folk like the Loyal Prince Lee." He chuckled. "Even in people like me, sometimes. Enough to make me wish you had not seen him that night. I would have prevented it, but I learned of Lee's intention too late—those were my men who intervened in the garden … unsuccessfully. Four of them died." lie gave an amused snort that made my skin crawl. "And, do you know—next day Lee and I greeted each other as usual, and said—nothing! We Taiping politicians are very discreet. Let me till your glass."

I wasn't liking this one bit. He'd never been this forthcoming before, and when great men wax confidential I find myself taking furtive looks over my shoulder. I just had to think of Palmerston.

quote:

"I saw Lee's purpose, of course," says the pot-bellied rascal. He hoped you would fall under our divine ruler's spell, become a fanatical advocate of Anglo-Taiping alliance, and convince Mr Bruce likewise." He shook his bullet head. "Poor Lee, he is such an optimist. With respect, my dear Sir Harry, soldiers should not meddle in affairs of state." I was with him there. "For now I was in a difficulty. Until that night I had accepted, though without enthusiasm, Lee's plan of marching on Shanghai and forcing Britain's hand. But once you had seen the Tien Wang … well, I asked myself what must follow when you reported his deplorable condition to Mr Bruce. Alas," he con-soled himself with another hefty gulp, "it was all too plain. Whatever force we took to Shanghai, we could never persuade Britain to recognise a regime led by such a creature! Mr Bruce would only have to picture the reaction of Prince Albert and the Church of England. They would fight us, rather. No … whatever hope we had of an alliance must perish the moment you set foot in Bruce's office."

If there's one thing that can make me puke with terror, it's having an Oriental despot tell me I'm inconvenient. "You think I'd be giving Bruce news?" I blurted. `Dammit, the whole world knows your Heavenly King's a raving idiot!"

"No, I think not," says he mildly. "Some may suspect it, but most charitably regard the rumours as Imp propaganda and missionary gossip. They would not know the full deplorable truth … until you told them." He looked wistfully at the bottle, now empty. "And then, we agree, Mr Bruce would reject us—and Lee would take Shanghai by storm, with all the horrors of sack and slaughter inevitable in such a victory, and we would be at war with Britain. A war we could not hope to win." He sighed heavily. "It seemed to me that our only hope must be that your report never reached Mr Bruce, in which case, happily ignorant of the Tien Wang's condition, he might well allow Lee to occupy Shanghai peacefully. Ah … you are not drinking, Sir Harry?"

My reply to this was an apoplectic croak, and he brightened.

"In that case, may I take your glass? Being fat, I am slothful, and it seems a long way to the house for another bottle. I thank you." He drained my glass and wiped his lips contentedly. "I do like port, I confess."

"But … but … look here!" I interrupted, babbling. "Don't you see, it won't matter a bit if they know the Heavenly King's cracked! Because I can tell 'em that you're not, and that you're guiding the revolution … sir … not that mad doxy-galloper!


I swear that when Bruce knows you're in charge—why, he'll be far more inclined to accept the Taiping, knowing you have it in hand … make a treaty; even —"

"Why, you are jolly kind!" beams the bloated Buddha. "But, alas, it would not be true. Lee is already as powerful as I, and when he succeeds at Shanghai, whether by persuasion or storm, it will be a triumph which cannot fail to enhance him and eclipse me utterly. It was while I was considering your own position that this fact burst on me with blinding force—I could see no issue at Shanghai that would not increase Lee's power and undermine my own. And that was terrible to contemplate … no, it is no use, we must have the other bottle!"

And he was off to the house like an obese whippet, kilting up his robe, his fat calves wobbling, while I sat alarmed and bewildered. He came back flourishing a bottle, laughing merrily as he resumed his seat and splashed port into our glasses.

"Your good health, Sir Harry!" chortles he, drat his impudence. "Yes … terrible to contemplate. But you mustn't think I'm jealous; if Lee were a realist, I would make way for him, for he is a splendid soldier who might win the war and establish the Heavenly Kingdom. I hoped so, once." He shook his head again. "But of late I have seen how blind is his fanaticism, how implicitly he will obey every insane decree from that lunatic he worships. Between them they would make the Taiping a headless centipede, poisonous, clawing without direction—and there would never be an end to this abominable war of extermination. Oh, that's what it is!" He laughed heartily, chilling my blood. "Do you know why we and the Imps never take prisoners? Because if we did, we could not hold our armies together—if they knew they could be taken prisoner, they would not fight. Consider that hideous fact, Sir Harry, and have some more port." He reached for the bottle, and I realised he was watching me intently, his fat creased face grinning most oddly.

"Between them, Lee and the Tien Wang will destroy the "Taiping," says he slowly, "unless I can prevent them. And that I can only do if I retain my power—and diminish that of Loyal Prince Lee. A grievous necessity," sighs the fat hypocrite, beaming happily. "Now, Sir Harry, I wonder if you can foresee—as a strictly neutral observer—how that might be brought about?"

Well, I'd seen where the blubbery villain was headed for some minutes past, and what between flooding relief and fury at the way he'd scared the innards out of me first, I didn't mince words.

"You mean if Lee falls flat on his arse at Shanghai!"

He looked puzzled—doubtless the expression was seldom heard in the Hong Kong mission where he'd worked. "If Lee were to fail at Shanghai," I explained. "If he tried to take the place and couldn't."

He sucked in port noisily. "But is that possible? Obviously, you have a vested interest in saying that it is, but my dear Sir Harry —" he leaned forward, glittering piggily, "I have been entirely frank with you—dangerously frank—and I trust you to be equally candid with me. You know Mr Bruce's mind; you know the position at Shanghai. Could Lee be made to fail?"

Of course he knew the answer; he'd been studying it for weeks. "Well, in the first place," says I, "he'll not scare Bruce into letting him walk in. He'll have to fight—and as I told you at our first meeting, it won't be against a mob of useless Imps who'll fall down if a Taiping farts at them." I waited until his bellow of mirth had subsided. "He'll be meeting British and French regulars for the first time—not many of 'em, but they can be reinforced, given time. We have Sikhs at Chusan, two regiments at Canton —"

"Three," says he. "I have information."

I'll bet he had. "With the fleet lying off Peiho—oh, and this gang of Fred Ward's for what it's worth —"

"Lee will have fifty thousand men, remember! Could Shanghai resist such a force?"

The temptation to say we could lick him from China to Cheltenham was irresistible, so I resisted it. He knew the case better than I did, so there was nothing for it but honesty.

"I don't know. But it could have a damned good try. If Bruce had warning, now, by a messenger he trusted …" I hung on that for a moment, and he nodded "… he'd have two weeks to garrison before Lee arrived. In which case you can wish Lee luck, because by God he'll need it!"

If you've ever seen a fat Chinaman holding four aces, you'll know how he was staring at me as he envisaged the delightful prospect of Lee disgraced, himself supreme—the deliberate sacrifice of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Taiping lives, and the certain loss of Shanghai to the Taiping cause forever, were mere trifles so long as Jen-kan won his political battle over Lee.

Author's Note posted:

That there was rivalry between Lee and Jen-kan is not only possible but likely, in view of the latter's sudden ascendancy, but only Flashman suggests that it was carried as far as this. There must always be doubt about what was happening behind the scenes at this critical stage in Taiping fortunes, but while Flashman's story is plausible, and not inconsistent with later events, and while some mystery attaches to Jen-kan's role within the movement, it is only right to say that no other writer has suggested that the prime minister was actively plotting the general's downfall.

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Suddenly he gave a little crowing laugh, and filled my glass.

"You confirm my conclusions exactly!" cries he. "Lee will certainly be defeated before Shanghai. Of course, in contriving this I am compromising myself most dangerously, but I know Mr Bruce will be discreet; he and H.M. Government have much to gain from an enlightened control in the Taiping movement. The steamships order, for example, need not be affected by our brief mutual hostilities at Shanghai, which will soon be forgotten. Britain can resume her policy of neutrality, and left to ourselves we shall defeat the Manchoos." He raised his glass to me. "Your own immediate profit should be considerable—you will be the hero who brought the momentous warning that saved Shanghai. I drink to your further advancement, my friend." He smacked his liver lips and leaned back, blinking up at the sunlight filtering through the fronds overhead. "I foresee happy times."

He had it all pat, the fat, grinning, ruthless scoundrel—but, d'you know, I can't say he was a whit worse than any other statesman of my acquaintance, and a sight jollier than most. I asked when I would go.

"Tonight," says he, "it is all arranged, with complete secrecy. I shall easily conceal your absence until the appropriate time, two weeks hence, when I will send word to Lee—who should he at Chingpu by now—that his advance to Shanghai can begin." Ile giggled and took another mammoth swig of port. "Your escort will take you as far as Chingpu, by the way, where by all accounts your friend Mr Ward will be in the vicinity. But you will keep well clear of Chingpu itself. Lee would not be pleased to see you." He turned to grin at me. "We know what you will tell Mr Bruce of the Heavenly King (regrettable, but there it is), and of the Loyal Prince Lee … I wonder what you will say of Hung Jen-kan?"

"That he drinks port at the wrong time of day."

He choked on his glass. "You intend to ruin my reputation, in fact. Ah, well, I am sure Mr Bruce will receive an honest account from you. The fact that it will be totally misleading is by the way." He heaved another of his mountainous sighs.

"You imagine I act out of unscrupulous self-interest; true, all revolutionaries do. They agitate and harangue and justify every villainy in the name of high ideals; they lie, to delude the people, whom they hold in contempt. They seek nothing but their personal ends—my only defence is that my ends are modest ones. I seek power to see the revolution accomplished; after that, I have no wish to rule. I want the biggest library in China, and to visit my cousins in San Francisco, and to read the Lesson, just once, in an English country church." He began to shake with laughter again. "Tell Mr Bruce that. He won't believe a word of it. Oh, and you will not forget to mention the steam-ships? An order worth a million, remember—whatever happens with Lee." He looked like a contented pig. "As Superintendent of Trade, Mr Bruce will not overlook the importance of the almighty dollar."

quote:

The expression "the almighty dollar", which now refers to American currency, was applied to the Chinese dollar in the last century.

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I hadn't arrived at Nanking in any great style, but it was Pullman travel compared to the way I went, under hatches on a stinking Yangtse fish-barge, with two of Jen-kan's thugs for company. I daren't show face until we were well away from the city, white fan-quis being as common in those parts as n****** in Norway; not that I'd have been hindered, but Jen-kan might have had awkward explanations to make if it got about that Flashy was heading east ahead of time. So we spent a day and night in the poisonous dark and came ashore somewhere on the Kiangyin bend, where two more thugs were waiting with ponies. Farther down, the river was infested by gangs of Imp deserters and bandits (no doubt the Provident Brave Butterflies were spreading their wings, among others), and while the land to the south was swarming with Taiping battalions, Jen-kan had reckoned we'd make better and safer time on horseback, taking a long sweep to come in by Chingpu, where Frederick T. Ward's foreign legion was preparing to have another slap at the Taiping garrison.

I don't remember much about that ride, except that I was damned stiff after months out of the saddle, but I know we raised Chingpu on a misty dawn, looking down from a crest to the town, perhaps a mile away. It was wooded country, with paddy here and there, and many waterways—you could see the little mat sails beetling along among the dykes, ever so pretty in the pearly morning light; it would have been quite an idyllic scene if there hadn't been the deuce of a battle going on round Chingpu's high mud walls.

We'd heard the guns before we came in view, and they were hanging away splendidly, wreathing the walls and gate-towers in thick grey smoke, while dead to our front great disorderly lines of men were advancing to the assault. To my astonishment I saw they were Imps, straggling along any old how, but in the van there was a fairly compact company in green caps, and I knew these must be Ward's people. Without a glass I couldn't make them out clearly, but they were holding together well under the fire from the walls, and presently they were charging the main gate, while the Imp supports milled about and let off crackers and waved banners in fine useless style.

Farther back, behind the attackers, were more Imp battalions by a river-bank, with a gunboat blazing away at nothing in particular, and about a mile away on my right was a low hill on which a couple of banners were flying, with a number of mounted men wheeling about and occasionally dashing out to the attacking force. Gallopers; the hill must be the attackers' head-quarters, so it behoved me to make for it. I was just pointing it out to my escort when there was a tremendous pandemonium from the plain before the town, the boom of guns and crackle of musket-fire redoubled, the crimson Taiping banners were waving wildly along the walls, and suddenly in the smoke-clouds before the gate there was a great glare of orange light followed by the thunderous roar of an explosion.

That was Ward's lads mining the main gate, and as the smoke cleared, sure enough, one of the supporting towers was in ruins, and green caps were surging into a breach as wide as a church. At this the Imps, seeing their side winning, set up a huge halloo and went swarming in to join the fun; in a moment the whole space before the breach was choked with men, while the supporting lines, throwing disorder to the winds, crowded in behind, blazing away indiscriminately—and that should have been the end of Chingpu. What the attackers had forgotten, or didn't know, was that they were assaulting a stronghold commanded by Loyal Prince Lee. They were about to find out, and it was a sight to see.

All along the front wall it was like an enormous football scrimmage; there must have been hundreds trying to get to the breach, and more arriving every second. On the side wall nearest to me there wasn't a single attacker, and now a banner waved on the battlements, a side-gate opened, and out came a column of Taiping red-coats, trotting orderly four abreast. They streamed out, hundreds strong, rounding the front angle, and went into the attacking mob like a scarlet thunderbolt. At the same moment, from the other side of the town, a second Taiping column completed the pincer movement, the black silk flags went up, and within five minutes there wasn't a living attacker within quarter of a mile of Chingpu, and the whole Imp rout was streaming back towards the river, utterly broken. I never saw a neater sally in my life; as the Taipings broke off the pursuit and began to strip the dead, I reflected that it was as well Jen-kan wasn't seeing this, or he might have entertained doubts about Shanghai's ability to hold Lee at bay.

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But you don't dally on the touch-line when the game's over; I wheeled my pony and made for the head-quarters hill, keeping well to flank of the fleeing Imps, with my escort thundering along behind. The gallopers and standard-bearers were streaming away over the brow, so I circled the hill and found myself in a little wood beyond which lay a broad sunken road, with what looked like a party of sightseers coming down it. There was a disconsolate chap in a green cap carrying a banner which he was plainly itching to throw away, a few stragglers and mules, Iwo minions carrying a picnic basket, and finally, flanked by a galloper with his arm in a bloody sling, and a noisy cove in a Norfolk jacket and gaiters, came a sedan chair, borne by perspiring coolies and containing Frederick T. Ward.

I almost didn't recognise him at first, for he was swathed in bandages like an Egyptian mummy, with his leg in a splint and a big plaster on his jaw, but it didn't stop him talking, and I'd have recognised that staccato Yankee voice anywhere. The Norfolk jacket had just finished roaring, in a fine Dixie accent, that he didn't know wheah Ned Forrestuh wuz, an' he didn't dam' well cayuh, neethuh, an' if Forrestuh had jest waited till the flanks wuz covered they wouldn't ha' bin cotched like a n***** with his pants down in the melon-patch, it was downright hoomiliatin'.

"Now, you find him damned quick!" snaps Ward. "If he got out—and I hope to God he did—you tell him to get back to Sungkiang with every man he's got! No, the hell with the gunboat, let the Imps worry about it! For all the good it was we'd ha' been better with a canoe! Now, get going—Sungkiang, remember! Spitz, find the doctor—I want our casualty count—not the Imps! Goddam it, if only I could walk!"

"An' whayuh the hell do Ah git goin' to?" bawled the Norfolk jacket, raising arms to heaven. " 'Lessn Forrestuh's daid, he'll be back at the rivuh by naow, an' … holy baldhead, who the hell is that?"

I had reined up by the road, and he was gaping at me, so I gave a cheery wave and sang out: "Just a tourist, old fellow. Hollo, Fred—been in the wars, I see!"

None too tactful, you may say, but no reason for the Norfolk jacket to leap three feet and yell: "Cover him, Spitz! He's a chang-mao!"

"Don't be a damned fool, I'm nothing of the sort!" says I. "Do I look like one?"

"They do!" he roars, pointing, and I realised that Jen-kan's four thugs were lurking modestly behind me, on the fringe of the wood, and there was no denying, they had Taiping hair-cuts.

"Hold your fire!" I shouted, for Spitz, the wounded galloper, was unlimbering an enormous pistol. "Ward, I'm Flashman! We're friends! They're not Taipings … well, they are, but they ain't hostile! Call him off, Fred, will you?"

He was looking at me as though I were a ghost, but he signed Spitz to put up his piece. "What'n tarnation are you doing here?"

"Going to Shanghai," says I. "So will you, if you've any sense."

"He's an Englishman!" cries the Norfolk jacket. "Like Trent an' Mowbray! Ah kin tell by his voice!"

"I know what he is!" says Ward impatiently, and to me: "I thought you were at the bottom of the Yangtse! Where the dooce have you been?"

"That's a long story. First, if you don't mind …" And I turned and waved away my escort, who wheeled and vanished into the wood on the instant, like sensible lads. Spitz raised a great outcry, and the Norfolk jacket waved his arms.

"Savage is English, too, an' he's with the Taipings!" he bellowed. "Seed the son-of-a-bitch on the wall this mawnin', bold as brass —"

"I told you to go find Forrester!" barks Ward, and winced. "drat this leg! Spitz, will you get that casualty count!" D'you know, they went like lambs; he was still young Fred Ward, but he'd grown some authority, all right.

"Well, I swan!" He shook his head at me. "You back in British service, or what? I thought you said they busted you over that Pearl River business?"

"No-o, you said that, and I didn't contradict you. I'm still staff colonel."

"Is that a fact?" He was grinning, although the pale young lace was pinched with pain. "And those four—were they on the staff, too? Oh, who cares! Come on, Dobbin!" He waved to the coolies, who heaved up the sedan again. "They don't gallop, exactly, and I'd as soon the Long-Hairs didn't catch up with me!"

I told him about Lee's forthcoming advance as we went, not mentioning Jen-kan, and he never took those bright black eyes off me, although he winced and gasped as he was bounced along. When I'd done, he whistled and swore.

"Well, there goes Sungkiang, I guess. In which case, the hell with it, I'm going to France, and have a rest." He squinted at Inc. "It's pukka—that Lee's coming?"

"Yes, and the less you say about it, the better. We don't want him to know he's expected, do we? But, look here—if you can't hold Sungkiang, hadn't you better pull back to Shanghai?"

"I've got a contract to hold the dam' place!" says he. "If I don't, Yang Fang'll want his money back—and he's my father-in-law! Anyway, your man Bruce doesn't want me any-where near Shanghai—I'm a confounded mercenary nuisance, old boy, dontcherknow?" He laughed bitterly. "The damned dummy! Why, if he'd supported me with arms and men, we'd ha' had a half dozen Taiping places by now, and Lee'd never get within twenty miles o' the coast! But all I get is Imps, and they don't fight—you saw that mess just now? And I had to lay there and watch! Say, I sure hope Ned Forrester got out, though!"

I said, if Bruce wasn't helpful, why didn't he try his own American consulate, and he hooted and said they were even more timid than the British or French. "They're all glad enough to hide behind us, though, preserving their darned neutrality—and counting their dividends! Ain't they, though? Oh, I reckon not!" He lay back, gasping and stirring to try to ease his wounds. "God, but I'm tired!"

We were out on the paddy by now, threading along the causeways, and on either side the plain was dotted with groups of fugitives, streaming away from Chingpu—Imps, mostly, but a few in green caps, white men and little dark-skinned chaps who I guessed were Filippinos. They hailed Ward whenever we came within earshot, and he shouted back, although his voice was weak, calling: "All right, boys! Good for you! See you in Sungkiang! Pay-day's coming, you bet! Hurrah!" And they hurrah-ed back, waving their caps, and trudged on through the paddy.

There was no sign of pursuit, and now we called a halt to eat and rest Ward's bearers. The picnic basket proved to contain enough for a banquet, with hams, cold roasts and fowls, fruit, chocolate, and even iced champagne, but Ward contented him-self with a loaf of bread which he ate in handfuls, soaking each bite in rum. The rest went in no time, for a party of green-cap stragglers came up, and Ward waved them to pitch in; they were Filippinos under a most ill-assorted pair, a huge broken-nosed American with his shirt open over his hairy barrel chest, who looked and talked like a hobo, and a slim little Royal Navy chap with a wing-collar and a handkerchief in his sleeve; Ward called them Tom and Jerry. And now came Spitz, trotting his near-foundered horse, with the news that Ned Forrester was slightly wounded, but that casualties had been heavy.

"There voss a huntret killed, and rear end many wounded," says he, pulling a cold fowl to pieces in his great hands and stuffing it down. Tom swore and Jerry tut-tutted, but Ward just laid down his loaf, closed his eyes, and recited the Lord's Prayer aloud, while we all left off eating and stood about with bowed heads, holding drumsticks and glasses.

"Ay-men," says Ward at last, "so we've got a hundred fit to fight. All right, Jerry—you and Tom make for Shanghai, tell Vincente Macanana I need two, three hundred recruits, and I don't mean Imp deserters. American and British, Russki, French, and all the Filippinos he can raise; kit 'em out at the camp, ten bucks apiece to sign on—no more or they'll take it an' quit right there. Force march to Sungkiang—and see here, Tom, I want 'em there in three days, no later, comprenny?"

"Dunno, old boy," drawls Jerry, shaking his head. "The well's pretty dry; may have to take some odd customers."

"Ticket-o'-leave men," growls Tom. "Bums. Dagoes."

"I don't give a hoot how odd they are so long as they can stand up and shoot! That's all they'll have to do when Lee lays siege to Sungkiang." Ward was looking more chipper now; he laughed at their glum faces and struggled up in his sedan to clap Tom on the back with his good hand. "No room for drills on the parapet, old fellow! Just bang and reload and knock down chang-maos like ninepins! Who knows an easier way of making a hundred a week, eh? That's the life in the Green-headed Army!"

"Will t'ree hunnert hold the place, I ask?" grumbles Spitz, and Ward rounded on him, grinning.

"Why, how you talk! Easy as pie! Tumble over their black bannermen and they'll run as fast as … as we did that first time we attacked Sungkiang. 'Member, Jerry? I know you don't, Tom, 'cos you were blind drunk an' snoring in the bottom of a sampan. Yes, you were, too! Oh, you needn't smirk so virtuous, either, Jerry! Who ran the boat aground?" He laughed again, eagerly. "But we came back, didn't we? Threw the Long-Hairs clear out o' the place, didn't we? And we're not giving it up, no, sir! Not while I can lay in a sedan chair an' give orders!"

Just listening to him, shot full of holes and chortling like a schoolboy, I could see Brooke on that rusty little steamer on Skrang river, slapping the table bright-eyed and urging us to sing, because we were only outnumbered a hundred to one by head-hunting pirates, and weren't we going to give 'em what for in the morning? They were a matched pair of madmen, Ward and Brooke, the kind who don't think a cause worth fighting unless it's half lost to start with, pumping their own crazy optimism into their followers by sheer force of will—for now Jerry was smiling and Tom grinning, and even Spitz, the surly Switzer, was looking less sour, while the Filippinos were laughing and chattering as Ward joked and harangued their officers.

I can't stand 'em, myself, these happy heroes; they'll do for us all if we don't watch out.

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Brooke damned near did for me, and F. T. Ward was just the man to have finished the job, as appeared presently when the others had gone off, and I said I must be pushing on to Shanghai myself. He lay quiet a moment, and cleared his throat.

"You wouldn't feel like taking some furlough, would you … colonel? I mean … oh, fellows like Tom and Jerry are just grand, you know, but … well, it'll take more'n pluck to hold Sungkiang, after today, and I could sure use a good man."

"Come, Fred," says I, "you know quite well I'm a Queen's officer, not a wild goose." Being tactful, you see; I'd sooner have gone on a polar expedition with Cetewayo.

"Oh, sure!" cries he airily. "I know that! I didn't mean anything permanent, just …" He gave me his cocky urchin grin, so young in that worn, pain-creased face. "Well, you took time off to run opium, didn't you? An' this job pays five hundred bucks a week, and commission on every town we take —"

"Like Chingpu, you mean? My, how you tempt a fellow …"

"Listen, I'll take Chingpu, don't you fret!" cries he. "Chingpu an' twenty more like it, you'll see! Once I get rested up, an' get a good bunch of fellows together, an' lick 'em into shape —"

"Frederick," says I, because for some reason I'd conceived an affection for the young idiot, "listen to me, will you? I've been twenty years in this game, and I know what I'm saying. Now, within the limits of raving lunacy, you're a good sort, and I don't want to see you come to harm. So my advice to you is … retire. The money ain't worth it; nothing's worth it. You're lying there like a bloody colander, and if you don't see sense, why, you'll finish up under the paddy, sure as fate …

"I'll finish up in Pekin!" cries he, and his black eyes were shining fit to sicken you. "Don't you see, this is just a beginning! I'm learning my trade here—sure, I'm making mistakes, and sure, I don't know one little bit about soldiering compared to you! But I will. Yes, sir. I've got the most important thing behind me—a bankroll from the China merchants, and the longer I stay in the field, the better I'll get, and I'm going to build me the Green-headed Army into something that'll sweep the Taipings out of China! And then I'll have won the Emperor's war for him. And then …" he laughed and sat back against his cushions, "… then, mister, you're going to dine out on how you ran poppy an' fought pirates with Frederick Townsend Ward!"

I watched his sedan jogging away across the plain in the wake of his tatterdemalion regiment, and thought, well, there's another damned fool gone to collect the wages of ambition. I was right—and wrong. He found his bed in the paddy, as I'd foretold, and hardly anyone remembers even his name nowadays, but you may say that without him Chinese Gordon might never have had a look-in. You can read about 'em both in the books, and shudder (I'll tell you my own tale of Gordon another time, if I'm spared);

Author's Note posted:

Flashman does more justice than is usually shown to Frederick Townsend Ward (1831-1862). The American soldier of fortune was unlucky in being succeeded in command of the Ever-Victorious Army of mercenaries by one of the great heroes of the Victorian age, Major-General Charles George ("Chinese") Gordon, who not only crushed the Taiping Rebellion but achieved immortality by his defence of Khartoum two decades later; it was the kind of fame that overshadowed all but his most eminent contemporaries, and Ward's part in the China wars was quite eclipsed. It remains that Ward did found the Ever-Victorious Army, and after initial reverses, won several victories, in the course of which he forged the weapon which Gordon was to wield so brilliantly. No doubt Ward's reputation suffered from his unpopularity with the foreign consulates in China, particularly the British, who resented his recruitment of the soldiers and sailors who were at one time the backbone of his force; it was also feared that his activities might endanger British neutrality. Ward's biographer, Cahill, is reasonably indignant at the scant credit which the American has received in comparison to Gordon, but seems to spoil his case by overstatement; to say that Ward was "a military genius who helped change the history of China" may be defensible, but to call him Gordon's superior as an organiser, strategist, and diplomat, and "unquestionably the greatest foreign soldier who fought in the Taiping Rebellion", is perhaps to exaggerate.

Flashman's account of Ward seems fairly accurate as far as the facts of his career go. A native of Salem, Mass., he was a mate on merchant ships when he was only 16, and had military experience in Central America, Mexico, and the Crimea with the French forces (he spoke French, but not Chinese). He came to China, apparently with romantic notions of joining the Taipings; there is no record of his ever having run guns or opium, but in the spring of 1860 he was mate of a Yangtse steamship, and fought a successful action against pirates when his vessel grounded. He was later mate of an Imperial gunboat in Gough's flotilla, before forming his own private army to defend Shanghai; for the Manchus; in this he was financed by China merchants including Yang ("Takee") Fang, whose daughter he married. Flashman's account of Ward's initial battles is entirely accurate; after his second defeat at Chingpu, and the loss of Sungkiang which followed, he went to France to recuperate, returning to China and fighting with growing success (but not without controversy) until his death: he was killed leading an attack on Tse-kee, on September 21, 1862. Then came Gordon, to inherit his army, and at least one of his gestures: it is a small thing, but while it is Gordon who is remembered as the general who led his men into battle carrying only a cane, the practice seems to have originated with Ward.

He was a small man, active and wiry, with intense dark eyes and a mild, pleasant manner. Little is known of his personality except that he was cheerful and amiable, but he must have had a remarkable gift of leadership, if only to hold his little army together through its early reverses, especially the first assault on Sungkiang, when his entire force arrived in action in an advanced state of intoxication. It may well be that he was as genially eccentric as Flashman suggests; by his own account, he did once fall overboard while pursuing a butterfly, and it is a matter of record that he was carried to the second attack on Chingpu, with his five wounds heavily bandaged, in a sedan chair. (See Yankee Adventurer, by Holger Cahill, 1930; The Ever-Victorious Army, by Andrew Wilson, 1868; With Gordon in China, by Thomas Lyster, 1891; History of China, vol iii, by D. C. Boulger, 1884; Gordon in China, by S. Mossman, 1875.)

The man in the Norfolk jacket, described by Flashman, was probably Henry Burgevine (1836-65), Ward's lieutenant, who briefly commanded the Ever-Victorious Army in the interval between Ward's death and Gordon's appointment. An explosive eccentric from the American South, Burgevine had served in the Crimea, and changed sides several times during the Taiping Rebellion. He lost the command of the E.V.A. after assaulting an official for withholding his troops' pay, went over to the rebels, subsequently deserted and rejoined Gordon (with whom he seems to have been on good terms), tried to change sides again, but was arrested and subsequently met his death by drowning in mysterious circumstances.

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I reached Shanghai at midnight, and the smell of fear was in the air already. Word had run ahead of Ward's debacle at Chingpu, and that it had been caused by none other than the terrible Loyal Prince Lee himself, who could now be expected to sweep on and overwhelm the city. Even the street lanterns seemed to be burning dimmer in apprehension, and I never saw fewer civilians or more troops abroad in the consular district; usually gates were wide, with lights and music from the houses within, and carriages and palkis moving in the streets; tonight the gates were closed, with strong piquets on guard, and occasional files of marines hurrying along, their tramp echoing in the silence.

Bruce had gone to bed, but they rousted him out, and for once his imperturbability deserted him; he stared at me like a stricken seraph, hair all awry where he'd hauled off his nightcap, but once he'd decided I wasn't dead after all he wasted no time, but called for lights to his study, thrust me into a chair, ordered up brandy and sandwiches and told me to talk as I ate.

"You've got two weeks," I told him, and launched into it—the date of Lee's advance, his probable strength, Jen-kan's conspiracy to ensure his failure—at which he exclaimed in disbelief and even Slater, his secretary, stopped taking notes to gape at me—and then such secondary matters as their detention of yours truly, and those impressions I'd formed which seemed important in the present crisis. I talked for an hour, almost without pause, and he hardly said a word till I'd done, when:

"Thank God I sent you to Nanking!" says he. "We've been growing surer by the week that he was coming, but no hint of the date—you're positive we have two weeks?"

"Ten days, if you like, certainly no less. It's my guess he'll put paid to Ward at Sungkiang before he marches on Shanghai."

"It would be a public service if he did!" exclaimed Bruce.

"That Yankee upstart is a greater embarrassment than the French priests!"

Author's Note posted:

French travellers to Soochow, including priests and missionaries, had assured Lee of a warm welcome in Shanghai, and since he set great store by the Christian bond between Taipings and Europeans, he advanced on the city in high hopes of a peaceful occupation, only to be thunderstruck when he was opposed. A rumour later arose that Roman Catholic priests, who detested the Taiping religion, had encouraged his advance in the hope that he and his army would be destroyed.

quote:

"He might buy you few days if he's strong enough," I reminded him. "I'd turn a blind eye to his recruiting, anyway, if I were you."

He sniffed, but said he'd make a note of it, and then told me with some satisfaction how he'd been urging the consuls and the Imps for weeks past to put the city in a state of defence; now that they had definite word, and a date, his hand would be strengthened tremendously, and by the time they had improved the fortifications and called in more troops, Lee could whistle for Shanghai, however many Taipings he had at his back. For which, he said handsomely, they were deeply indebted to me, and Lord Palmerston should know of it.

Well, I always say, credit and cash, you can never have too much of either, but the best news he gave me was that he was sending me north without delay to join Elgin, who had just made his landing at the mouth of the Peiho with Grant's army, and was preparing to advance on Pekin. "There is nothing you can do here, now, my dear Sir Harry, to compare with what you have already done," says he, all smiles, "and it is of the first importance that Lord Elgin himself should have your account of the Taipings without delay. There will be endless chin-chinning with the Emperor's people, you may be sure, before he reaches Pekin, and your intelligence will be of incalculable value."


I heard him with relief, for I'd been fearful that he'd want to keep me by him to advise about Lee's army, and if there was one place I'd no desire to linger just then, it was Shanghai. You see, Bruce, like Jen-kan, might be certain that Lee was going to get a bloody nose, but I wasn't; I'd seen his long-haired bastards making mincemeat of Soochow, and I'd no wish to be among the gallant defenders when their black flags went up before our walls. So I looked knowing and serious, and admitted that I'd be glad to get back to proper campaigning again, and he and Slater exchanged glances of admiration at this soldierly zeal.

They couldn't wait to be rid of me, though; I'd been looking forward to a few days loafing and being lionised, and several restorative romps with my Russian man-eater at the hairdresser's—I hadn't had a woman since my last bout with Szu-Zhan (God, what an age ago that seemed) and I didn't want to forget how it was done. But no; Bruce said I must take the fast steam-sloop for the Peiho that very morning, because Elgin would be in a sweat to have me on hand, and mustn't be kept waiting. (It's astonishing, how even the best men start falling over them-selves in a fret when it's a question of contenting their elder brother.)

So now you find Flashy beating nor'-west by south or whatever the proper nautical jargon may be, thundering amain o'er the trackless waste o' waters—which I did by dossing for fourteen hours straight off, and if there was a typhoon it was all one to me. For the first time in months—since I boarded the steamer Yangtse, in fact—I was free of all care, content to be tired, with nothing ahead but a safe, leisurely campaign in good company, while behind lay the nightmare, ugly and confused; not near as bad as some I've known, but disturbing enough. Perhaps it was those unreal weeks in Taipingdom that made the memories distasteful; stark danger and horror you can either fight or run from, but madness spreads a blight there's no escaping; it still made me feel vaguely unclean to think of Lee's sharp, crazy eyes, or the blank hypnotic gaze of the arch-lunatic on that incredible night, with the joss-stench like a drug, and those wonderful satin bodies writhing nakedly … by Jove, there's a lot to be said for starting a new religion. Or the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees, maddeningly out of reach … and far better, the lean face smiling wickedly above the chain collar, and the long bare-breasted shapeliness lounging at the rail. And then the crash of shots, the screaming faces and whirling blades surging out of the mist … masked figures and steel claws dragging me through the dark … red-coated legions stamping up the dust like Jaggernauts … black silk flags and burned corpses heaped … a fat, smiling yellow face telling me I knew too much to live … a crippled figure swathed in bandages urging on his fools to die for a handful of dollars … that same boy's face distorted with horror as a cageful of poor wretches was plunged to death in a mere spiteful gesture. Surely China must have exhausted its horrors by now?

So I thought, in my drowsy waking, like the optimistic idiot I was. You'd think I'd have known better, after twenty years of counting chickens which turned out to be ravening vultures. For China had done no more than spar gently with me as yet, and the first gruesome round of the real battle was only three days away.

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That was the time it took from the Yangtse to the mouth of the Peiho, the great waterway to Pekin, and you must take a squint at the map if you're to follow what happened to me next. The mouth of the Peiho was guarded by the famous Taku Forts, from which we had been bloodily repulsed the previous year, when the Yankees, watching on the touchline, had thrown their neutrality overboard in the crisis and weighed in to help pull Cousin John Bull out of the soup. The Forts were still there, dragon's teeth on either bank, and since Elgin couldn't tell whether the Manchoos would let us pass peacefully or blow us to bits, he and Grant had wisely landed eight miles farther up the coast, at the Pehtang, from whence they and the Frogs could march inland and take the Forts from the landward side, if the Chinks showed any disposition to dispute our passage.

Author's Note posted:

Admiral Hope's failure to force a passage at the Taku Forts on June 25, 1859, is a forgotten imperial incident; it was also probably the first occasion on which British and American servicemen fought side by side, if unofficially. Hope's gunboats came under heavy bombardment from the Chinese batteries, and one, the Plover, lost thirty-one out of her crew of forty, her commander was killed, the admiral was wounded, and the remaining nine seamen were fighting their guns against hopeless odds. It was too much for the elderly Commodore Josiah Tattnall, watching from the neutral deck of his U.S. Navy steamer Toeywhan; as a young midshipman he had fought against the British in the War of 1812; now, disregarding his country's non-belligerent status, he took a boat in under fire and offered Hope his help. Hope accepted, and Tattnall's launch brought out the British wounded; only later did he discover several of his men black with powder smoke. "What have you been doing, you rascals?" he asked, and received the reply: "Beg pardon, sir, but they were a bit short-handed with the bow gun." The old commodore made no excuses, for himself or his men, in reporting the incident to Washington. "Blood," he wrote, "is thicker than water." (See A. Hilliard Armitage, The Storming of the Taku Forts, 1896.)

Hope's failure at Taku met with less sympathy from the London correspondent of the New York Daily News, Karl Marx. Reporting the subsequent debate in Parliament, he wrote: "The whole debate in both Houses on the China war evaporated in grotesque compliments showered … on the head of Admiral Hope for having so gloriously buried the British forces in the mud." (See Edgar Holt, The Opium Wars in China, 1964). Marx was a trenchant commentator on Chinese affairs; he it was who likened the dissolution of the Manchu Empire to that of a mummy in a hermetically-sealed coffin brought into contact with the open air.

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From the Peiho mouth to the Pehtang the sea was covered with our squadrons; to the south, guarded by fighting ships, were the river transports waiting to enter the Peiho when the Forts had been silenced; for the moment they lay safe out of range. Farther north was the main fleet, a great forest of masts and rigging and smoking funnels—troop transports with their tow vessels, supply ships, fighting sail, steamships, and gunboats, and even junks and merchantmen and sampans, with the small boats scuttling between 'em like water-beetles, rowed by coolies or red-faced tars in white canvas and straw hats. It takes a powerful lot of shipping, more than two hundred bottoms, to land 15,000 men, horse, foot, guns, and commissariat, which was what Grant and Montauban had done almost two weeks earlier, and by all accounts it was still bedlam at the Pehtang landing-place.

"Won't have you ashore until tomorrow, colonel, at this rate," says my sloop commander, and being impatient by now to be off his pitching little washtub, I took a look at the long flat coast-line a bare mile away, and made a damned fool suggestion.

We were about half-way between Peiho and Pehtang, in the middle of the fleet, but over on the coast itself there seemed to be one or two flat-bottoms putting in, landing horses on the beach. "Could your launch set me down yonder?" says I, and he scratched his head and said he supposed so, with the result that half an hour later we were pitching through the surf to an improvised landing-stage where a mob of half-naked coolies were manhandling a pontoon from which syces were leading horses ashore—big ugly Walers, they were, rearing and neighing like bedamned as they shied at the salt foam. There was a pink-faced youth in a red turban and grey tunic cussing the handlers richly as I splashed ashore.

"Get your fingers in his nose, can't you?" squeaks he. "Oh, my stars! He ain't a sheep, you know!"

I hailed him, and his name was Carnac, I remember, subaltern in Fane's horse, an enterprising lad who, like me, had decided to come in by a side door. The Walers were remounts for his regiment, which he reckoned was somewhere on the causeway between Pehtang and Sinho—a glance at the map will show you how we were placed.

"Fane don't care to be kept waiting," says he, "and we'll need these dam' screws tomorrow, I imagine. So I'm going to take 'em over there while the tide's still out —" he gestured north over the mud-flats which stretched away for miles into the misty distance. "Our people ought to be in Sinho by now. That's over there." And he pointed dead ahead. "About five miles, but there may be Tartars in between, so I'm taking no chances."

"Stout fella," says I. "Got a buckshee Waler for a poor staff colonel, have you? I'm looking for Lord Elgin."

"Dunno where he is—Pehtang, prob'ly," says the lad. "But Sir Hope Grant's sure to be on the causeway, where we're going."

"He'll do," says I, and when the last of his Walers was ashore, and the syces had mounted, we trotted off across the flat. It was muddy tidal sand as far as you could see, with little pools drying in the morning sun, but the mist was burning away, and presently we heard the thump of guns ahead, and Carnac set off at a canter for higher ground to our right. I followed him, scrambling up onto the harder footing of a little plateau dotted with mounds which looked for all the world like big tents—burial places, not unlike Russian koorgans. We pushed forward to the farther edge of the plateau, and there we were, in a ringside seat.

Running across our front, about a mile ahead, was the cause-way, a high banked road, and along it, advancing steadily to the wail of pipes and rattle of drums, were columns of red-coated infantry, our 1st Division; behind them came the khaki coats of native infantry, and then the blue overcoats and kepis of the Frogs; there must have been two thousand men rolling down to the Manchoo entrenchments where the causeway ended on our left front, with the Armstrong guns crashing away behind them and "Blue Bonnets over the Border" keening in front. Behind the Manchoo entrenchment were masses of Chinese infantry, Bannermen and Tiger soldiers, and on their left a great horde of Tartar cavalry; through Carnac's glass I could make out the red coats and fur hats of the riders, crouched like jockeys on their sheepskins.

quote:

Even as we watched, the Tartar cavalry began to move, wheeling away from the causeway and charging en masse away from our advancing columns and out on to their far flank. Carnac stood in his stirrups, his voice cracking with excitement:

"That's the 2nd Division over yonder! Can't see 'em for the haze! By Jove, the Chinks are charging 'em! Would you believe it?"

It was too far to see clearly, but the Tartars were certainly vanishing into the haze, from which came barking salvo after salvo of field pieces, and while our columns on the causeway held back, there was evidently hell breaking loose to their right front. Sure enough, after a moment back came the Tartars, flying in disorder and scattering across the plain, and out of the haze behind them came a thundering line of grey tunics and red puggarees, lances lowered, and behind I saw the red coats of the heavies, the Dragoon Guards. Carnac went wild.

"Look at 'em go! Those are my chaps! Tally-ho, Fane's! Give 'em what for! By crumbs, there's an omen—first action an' we're chasing 'em like hares!"

He was right. The Chinks were all to pieces, with the Indian lancers and Dragoon sabres in among them, and now the columns on the causeway were deploying from the road, quickening their pace as they swept on to the Chink entrenchment. There was the plumed smoke of a volley as they charged, a ragged burst of firing from the Chinks, and then they were into the earthworks, and the Manchoo gunners and infantry were flying in rout, with the Armstrong shells bursting among them. Behind their lines the ground was black with fugitives, streaming back to a village which I supposed was Sinho. Carnac was hallooing like a madman, and even I found myself exclaiming: "Dam' good, Grant! Dam' fine!" for I never saw a smarter right and left in my life, and that was the Battle of Sinho receipted and filed, and the road to the Taku Forts open.

Carnac was in a fever to reach his regiment, and made off for the causeway with his syces at the gallop, but I was in no hurry. Sinho was a good three miles away, with swamp and salt-pans and canals in between, and if I knew anything about battle-fields the ground would be littered with bad-tempered enemy wound-d just ready to take out their spite on passers-by. I'd give 'em time to crawl away or die; meanwhile I watched the 2nd Division moving in from the plain, and the 1st cheering 'em into the Chinese positions, with great hurrahing and waving of hats. That was where Grant would be, and rather than trot the mile to the causeway which was crowded with our traffic, I presently rode down to the flat and made a bee-line for Sinho across country. I doubted if any sensible Manchoos would be disporting themselves in the vicinity by now; I forgot that every army has its share of idiots.

Down on the salt-flats I no longer had much view; it was nothing but great crusted white beds and little canals, with occasional brackish hollows; ugly country, and after a few minutes there wasn't a soul to be seen anywhere, just the glittering lips of the salt-pans either side, cutting off sight and sound, and only the dry scuff of the Waler's hooves to break the stillness. Suddenly I remembered the Jornada, the Dead Man's Journey under the silent New Mexican moon, and shivered, and I was just about to wheel right and make for the direction of the causeway when I became aware of sounds of true British altercation ahead. I trotted round a salt-bank and beheld an interesting tableau.

Well, there was a Scotsman, an Irishman, and a Chinaman...

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and they were shouting drunken abuse at each other over a grog-cart which was foundered with a broken wheel.

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The Paddy, a burly red-head with a sergeant's chevrons, was trying to wrest a bottle from the Scot, a black-avised scoundrel in a red coat who was beating him off and singing an obscene song about a ball at Kirriemuir which was new to me; the Chink was egging 'em on and shrieking with laughter. Various other coolies stood passively in the background.

"Ye ******-faced Scotch sot!" roars the Murphy. "Will ye come to order, now? I'm warnin' ye, Moyes—I'm warnin' ye!

It'll be the triangle and a bloody back for ye if ye don't surrinder that bottle, what's left of it, ye guzzlin' pig, ye! Give over!"

The Scot left off singing long enough to knock him down, and lurched against the cart. "See you, Nolan," cries he. "See your grandmither? She wiz a hoor! Nor she couldnae read nor write! So she had your mither, by a Jesuit! Aye, an' your mither had you, by a b'ilerman! Christ, Nolan, Ah'm ashamed o' ye! Ye want a drink?"

The Irishman came up roaring, and flew at him, and since brawling rankers ain't my touch I was about to ride on, when there was a pounding of hooves behind me, a chorus of yells, and over the lip came a section of Tartar cavalry, bent on villainy. After which much happened in a very short space.

I was off the Waler and shooting under its neck with my Colt in quick time, and down goes the lead Tartar. His mates hauled up, unslinging their bows, and I barely had time to leap aside before my Waler was down and thrashing, feathered with shafts. I turned, ran, and fell, rolling over and blowing shots at the red coats which seemed to be swarming everywhere; out of the tail of my eye I saw the Irishman grabbing a Tartar's leg and heaving him from the saddle; the Scotchman, whom I'd have thought too screwed for anything, was on top of the grog cart, crashing his bottle on the head of another Tartar and then diving on to him, stabbing with the shards. I took an almighty crack on the head, which didn't stun me, but caused me to lose the use of my limbs entirely; then I was being hauled up between two red coats, with evil yellow faces yelling at me from under conical fur hats, and the stink was fit to knock you down—the fact is, they never wash; even the Chinese complain. The scene was swimming round me; I remember seeing the Irishman being frog-marched and bound, and the Scot lying on the ground, apparently dead, and that's all.

quote:

Now, I say I don't believe I lost consciousness, but I must have done, for piecing events together later, there's a day missing. So they tell me, anyway, but it don't matter. I know what I remember—and can never forget.

There was terrible pain in my wrists and ankles: when the Chinese tie a man up, they do it as tight as possible, so that his hands are quickly useless, and in time will mortify. There was darkness, too, and an agonising jolting: plainly I was carried on one of their ponies. But my first clear recollection is of a foul cell, a foot deep in mud, and no feeling in my hands or feet, which were still bound. I couldn't speak for raging thirst that had dried my tongue and lips bone hard; all I could do was lie in pain, with my senses dulled almost to idiocy—I could hear, though, and I remember that coarse Scotch voice yelling obscenities, and the Irish voice hoarse and begging him to lay off, and the wailing of coolies somewhere near me in the dark.

And then there was blinding light in the cell, and Tartar swine yelling and dragging us to a low doorway, kicking and beating us as we went. I remember recalling that the Manchoos treated all prisoners alike—as vermin—so being an officer meant nothing, not that I could have proclaimed myself, with my tongue like a board. I half-fell out into the light, and was hauled to my feet, and after a moment my vision cleared, and the first thing I saw was a face.

No doubt I'm biased, but it was the most cruel, evil human visage I ever set eyes on, and I've seen some beauties. This one was as flat and yellow as a guinea, grinning in sheer pleasure at our pain, turning to laugh bestially to someone nearby; it had a drooping moustache and a little chin-beard, and was crowned with a polished steel helmet. The figure that went with the face was all in steel and leather armour, even to mailed gauntlets, with a splendid robe of red silk round the shoulders. He was seated on a gilded chair of state, with a great sword across his knees, and beside him stood a nondescript Chink official and a burly Tartar, bare to the waist, with an axe on his shoulder.

We were in a courtyard with high walls, lined by fur-capped Tartars; to my right were half-a-dozen cringing coolies, and to my left, barely recognisable for the mud that plastered them, stood the Paddy and the Scot from the grog-cart; the Irishman had his eyes closed, muttering Hail-Mary; the Scot was staring ahead. His tunic was half-torn off, but I noted dully that it bore the ochre facing of the Buffs, and that he had old cat-scars on his shoulder. My eyes went back to the huge Tartar with the axe, and with a thrill of sheer horror I knew that we were going to die.

tokenbrownguy posted:

By my count we're up to... double digits? sides of this conflict. Are the tartar's non affiliated central asian mercs or something? I know nothing of the Taiping revolt.

Also keep up the posts Arbite! always brightens my day.

quote:

Suddenly the brute in the chair spoke, or rather shrieked in Chinese, flinging out a pointing hand of which two fingers were sheathed in nail-cases.

"Filth! Lice! White offal! You dare to show your dog-faces in the Celestial Kingdom, and defile the sacred soil! You dare to defy the Complete Abundance! But the day of your humiliation is coming! Like curs, you have fed your pride for twenty years! Now, like curs, you will hang your heads, lay back your ears, wag your tails, and beg for mercy!" There was foam at his thin lips, and he jerked and glared like a maniac. "Kneel! Kneel down, vermin! Kow-tow! Kow-tow!"

There were squeals and whimpers on my right; the coolies were down and knocking head for dear life. The two Britons on my left, not understanding a word, didn't move, and as the mailed tyrant screamed with rage the little official hurried for-ward, snarling in a fearful parody of English:

"Down! Down to legs! Down to Prince Sang! Makes kill! See! Makes kill!"

He was gesticulating at the big Tartar, who stumped forward grinning, flourishing that awful axe above his head with both hands. There was no doubt what was demanded—and the alternative. It was enough for me: I was down and butting my way to the Antipodes before the little bastard had done speaking. I still thought we were doomed, but if a timely grovel would help, he could have it from me and welcome; you don't catch Flashy standing proud and unflinching at the gates of doom. There was one who did, though.

"Down! Down to Prince Sang! Not—makes kill! Not kow-tow, makes kill! Kow-tow! Kow-tow!" The official was screaming again, and with my head on the earth I stole a sideways glance. This is what I saw:



The Paddy was a brave man—he absolutely hesitated. His face was crimson, and he glared and gulped horribly, and then he fell to his knees and put his face in the dust like the rest of us. Beyond him the Sawney was standing, frowning at the Prince as though he couldn't credit what he'd heard; his mouth was hanging slack, and I wondered was he still drunk. But he wasn't.

"Ye what?" says he, in that rasping gutter voice, and as the Prince glared and the little official jabbered, I heard the Irish-man, hoarse and urgent:

"Fer God's sake, Moyes, get down! Ye bloody idiot, he'll kill ye, else! Get down, man!"

Moyes turned his head, and his eyes were wide in disbelief. By God, so were my ears. For clear as a bell, says he: "Tae a in' Chink? Away, you!"

And he stood straight as he could, stared at Prince Sang, and stuck out his dirty, unshaven chin.

For a full ten seconds there wasn't a sound, and then Sang screamed like an animal, and leaped from his chair. The Tartar, square in front of Moyes, brought the glittering axe- blade round slowly, within inches of the Scot's face, and then whirled it up, poised to strike. The official repeated the order to kow-tow—and Moyes lifted his chin just a trifle, looked straight at Sang, and spat gently out of the corner of his mouth.

Sang quivered as though he'd been struck, and for a moment I thought he'd spring at the bound man. But all he did was glare and hiss an order to the Tartar, who raised the axe s till higher, his huge shoulders bunched to strike. The Irish=an's voice sounded in a pleading croak:

"Jaysus, man—will ye do as he bids ye, for the love o' Mary? Ye'll be kilt, ye fool! He'll murther ye!"

"That'll mak' him a man afore his mither," says Moyes quietly, and for flat, careless contempt I never heard its equal. He stood like a rock—and suddenly the axe flashed down, wi tin a hideous thud, his body was sent hurtling back, and I was f ace down in the dirt, gasping bile and sobbing with horror.

That was how it happened—the stories that he laughed in defiance, or made a speech about not bowing his head to any heathen, or recited a prayer, or even the tale that he died drunk—they're false. I'd say he was taken flat aback at the mere notion of kow-towing, and when it sank in, he wasn't having it, not if it cost him his life. You may ask, was he a hero or just a fool, and I'll not answer—for I know this much, that each man has his price, and his was higher than yours or mine. That's all. I know one other thing—whenever I hear someone say "Proud as Lucifer", I think, no, proud as Private Moyes.

Author's Note posted:

"Last night among his fellow roughs,

He jested, quaff'd and swore;

A drunken private of the Buffs,

Who never look'd before.

Today, beneath his foeman's frown,

He stands in Elgin's place,

Ambassador from Britain's crown

And type of all her race."

Flashman had witnessed one of the most dramatic moments of the China War, and its most famous heroism, when Moyes, "the drunken private of the Buffs", who had been captured along with an Irish sergeant of the 44th and some coolies (one version says Sikhs), flatly refused to kow-tow to his Chinese captors, and was cut down in cold blood. Yet but for Sir Francis Doyle's poem the incident might hardly have been heard of; today it is largely forgotten, and the facts behind it are difficult to trace. The story rests on the sergeant's authority, and there seems no reason to doubt him, or Flashman—or for that matter, Doyle's poem, which only errs (possibly deliberately) in presenting Moyes as a young Kentish country boy, when in fact he was a fairly disreputable Scot, old enough, it is said, to have been broken from the rank of colour sergeant for insubordination—which seems characteristic. Not much more is known of Moyes, whose presence in the Buffs (the East Kent Regiment) was presumably a matter of chance. A rumour that he died of drink in captivity seems to have no foundation; he was in the hands of the Chinese for barely one day, and the sergeant's account, which Doyle obviously accepted, is consistent with the experience of later prisoners.

It is just possible that Doyle, who was Matthew Arnold's successor as Professor of Poetry at Oxford, had the Moyes story from a most authoritative source—Lord Elgin himself. They had been contemporaries at Eton and Christ Church, where both took Firsts in Classics in 1832, belonged to the small circle of Gladstone's intimates (Doyle was his best man), and may have met again after Elgin's return to Britain in 1861.

quote:

But I'd no time for philosophy just then; I was numb with shock and a blinding pain in my wounded head as they dragged us back to our cell, still in mortal fear of our lives; someone, I believe it was a coolie, loosed my bonds and poured water over my face and down my throat, and I remember the excruciating pain as the blood flowed back to my hands and feet. Gradually it eased, and I must have slept in that bed of stinking mud, for suddenly I was awake, and it was freezing cold, and though my skull was still aching dully, I was clear-headed—and I was alone in the cell and the door was open.

By the cold, and the dim light, it could only be dawn, and there was a cannonading shaking the ground, from not far away. It stopped of a sudden, with much Chinese yelling, and then came the crash of exploding Armstrongs, followed by a distant rattle of musketry, growing closer, and culminating in a babble of voices cheering. More shots, and steps pounding outside, and a voice bellowing excitedly: "En avant! En avant! Chat huant! Chat huant!", and as I scrambled up, soaked in mud, I was thinking: "Frogs, and Bretons, at that!" and I stumbled from the cell into the arms of a big cove in a blue overcoat and kepi, who gave back roaring in disgust from this muddy spectre pawing at him.

Author's Note posted:

The hoot of the tawny owl, the chat huant, was a recognition signal among the peasant guerrilla fighters of Britanny ("les Chouans") who remained loyal to the crown in the French Revolution. Probably only Flashman, hearing the words at such a critical moment, would have known (or bothered to note) that the speaker was presumably a Breton.]

quote:

This was how it was. I'd been taken prisoner by the Tartars on the afternoon of August 12, and carried by them to the village of Tang-ku, the last Chink outpost before Taku Forts. I'd been groggy with the clout on my head until next day, when we'd been dragged out to the yard where Moyes was murdered. I must have lain in the cell through the next night, and when our people attacked Tang-ku at dawn on the 14th, and the Chinese fired a few salvoes and abandoned the place, leaving us unheeded—why, there I was. Where the Irishman and the coolies had gone, I'd no notion, but I gave it some thought while a Frog rifleman helped me back to a field dressing-station—and decided to be French for the moment. I mort-de-ma-vied and sacred-blued like anything while an orderly flung water over me to disperse my filth and then clapped a cold compress on my battered scalp. I gave him a torrent of garlic gratitude and withdrew from the bedlam of the station, muttering like an Apache, and considering, now that the peril was past, how to preserve my precious credit.

You see, I'd grovelled, and been seen to grovel, to that infernal Chink warlord—but only by a Paddy sergeant who didn't know me from Adam; besides, I'd been in khaki mufti and so plastered with dung as to be unrecognisable. I doubted if the Mick had even seen me at the grog-cart, it had all happened so quickly—so now, if I minded my step for a while, and covered my tracks, there was no earthly reason why the inconvenient Fenian (wherever he was) or anyone else, should ever identify the spruce and heroic Flashy, who would shortly appear at head-quarters, with the craven scarecrow who'd been first to knock head before the heathen's feet. Ve-ry good; all we needed was a razor and somebody's clean shirt and trousers …

It's a crying shame, as I keep telling Royal Commissions, that among all the military manuals there ain't a line about foraging and decorating, those essential arts whereby the soldier keeps body and soul together in adversity. Offered to write 'em one, but they wouldn't have it, more fool them, for I've lifted every-thing from chickens to Crown Jewels, and could have set generations of young fellows right, if they'd let me. It was child's play to kit myself out after Tang-ku; the two miles back to Sinho was a carnival of support troops and baggage following the advance, setting up tents and quarters, and a great confusion through which I ambled, airing my French when I had to, and being taken, no doubt, for a rather unkempt commissariat-wallah, or a correspondent, or a Nonconformist missionary. Within ten minutes I'd replaced my soiled garments with a fine tussore coat, coolie pants, solar helmet, and umbrella, with a handsome morocco toilet case in my back pocket—and if you think that outlandish, let me tell you that armies were a deal more informally attired in my day. Campbell at Lucknow looked like a bus conductor, and old Raglan in the Crimea appeared to have robbed a jumble sale.

So when I'd shaved in a quiet corner, got rid of my bandages, and covered my cracked sconce with the topi, I was in pretty good fig, though feeling like a stretcher case. I hopped aboard an empty Frog ammunition cart going back to Sinho, spied Grant's marker by a covered wagon, and strolled up to report, swinging my gamp. Two staff infants were within, Addiscombe all over 'em.

"Hollo, my sons!" cries I cheerily, with my head splitting. "I'm Flashman. Not a bit of it, sit down, sit down! Don't tell me you haven't learned the great headquarters rule yet!"

They looked at each other, blushing and respectful in the presence of the celebrated beau sabreur. "No, sir," says one, nervously. `What's that?"

"Hark'ee, my boy. If bread is the staff of life, what is the life of the staff?"

"Dunno, sir," says he, grinning.

"One long loaf," says I, winking. "So take your ease, and tell me where's Sir Hope Grant?"

They said he was with the 60th, and when I inquired for Elgin, they looked astonished and told me he was back at Pehtang.

"You mean I've trekked all across those confounded mud-flats for nothing? Now, that's too bad! Ah, well, Pehtang it must be. My compliments to Sir Hope, and tell Wolseley that if I hear he's been fleecing you young chaps at piquet, I'll call him out. So long, my sons!"

Alibi nicely established, you see, with two gratified young gallopers reporting that Flashy had just tooled in from the coast (which was true, give or take a couple of days). I could now depart for Pehtang in the certainty that no one would ever imagine I'd been near Tang-ku, and the scene of my shame. It's just a question of taking thought and pains, and well worth it.

quote:

I was feeling decidedly flimsy by now, and wondering if I'd last as far as Pehtang, but by good luck the first man I ran into outside Grant's wagon was Nuxban Khan, who'd been second to my blood-brother, Ilderim Khan, in the irregular horse at Jhansi. He hailed me with a great whoop and roarings in Pushtu, a huge Afghan thug in a sashed coat and enormous top-boots, grinning all over his dreadful face as he demanded how I did, and recalling those happy days when the Thugs all but had me outside the Rani's pavilion until he and Ilderim and the rest of the Khyber Co-operative Society arrived to carve them up so artistically. He was a great man now, rissaldar in Fane's Horse, and when he heard where I was bound nothing would do but I must travel in style in the regimental gig.

"Shall Bloody Lance walk, or ride like a common sowar? No, by God! Thou'lt ride like a rajah, old friend—ah, the Colonel husoor's pardon!—for the honour of Ilderim's band! Aye, Ilderim! He ate his last salt at Cawnpore, peace be with him!" Suddenly there were tears running down his evil face. "Bismilah! Where are such friends as Ilderim today? Or such foes? Have ye seen these Tartars, Bloody Lance? Mice! Aye, but we'll go mouse-hunting anon, thou and I!" Then he was shouting. "Hey, Probyn Sahib! Probyn Sahib! See who is here!"

And now he was making me known to Probyn, whom I'd never met—tall, handsome, soft-spoken Probyn, whom some called the best irregular cavalryman since Skinner (though I'd have rated Grant above both). He was only a subaltern in his regular regiment, yet here he was, with an independent command of his own, and a V.C. to boot. He in turn presented a few of his officers, Afghans to a man, and as ugly a crowd as ever crossed the border, and it made me feel downright odd, when he indicated me as "Flashman bahadur", to see how they straightened and beamed and clicked their heels.

D'you know, it was like coming home? Suddenly, among those wicked friendly faces, with Nuxban exclaiming and Probyn smiling and eyeing me respectfully, the terror of the past two days melted away, and even my head didn't ache so fierce. I realised what it was—for the first time, in China, I wasn't alone: I had the best army on earth with me, the bravest of the brave, terrible men who hailed me as a comrade, and an admired comrade, at that—unless your belly's as yellow as mine, you can't imagine what it means. I felt downright proud, and safe at last.

quote:

Probyn rode along with me when I rolled off in Nuxban's gig, and for the first time I had a proper look at the great British and French army camped outside Sinho. On either side of the causeway road stretched the long lines of tents, white and khaki and green, with the guidons fluttering and the troops at exercise or loafing: here was a company of Frogs with their overcoats and great packs counter-marching on the right of the road to "Marche Lorraine", in competition with a Punjabi battalion, very trim in beards and tight puggarees, drilling to "John Peel" on the left; there was a Spahi squadron practising wheels at the gallop, the long cloaks flying, and a line of Probyn's riders, Sikhs and Afghans in shirt-sleeves, taking turns to ride full tilt past an officer who was tossing oranges in the air—they were taking 'em with their sabres on the fly, roars of applause greeting each successful cut.

"Fane's boys will be doing it with grapes tomorrow, I expect," says Probyn.

I said it was a pity the Chinese Emperor couldn't see 'em, and be brought to his senses—the neat artillery parks and rocket batteries, the endless lines of supply carts and ordnance wagons, manned by the milling Coolie Corps, whiskered Madrassis wrestling in their loin-cloths, brawny Gunners playing cricket on a mat wicket, bearded Sikhs grinding their lance-points on the emery wheel, green-jacketed 60th riflemen close-order-drilling like clockwork, a squadron of Dragoon Guards trotting by, each pith helmet and sloped sabre at an identical angle, Royals in their shirt-sleeves mingling with the Tirailleurs to swap baccy and gossip (it's damned sinister, if you ask me, how the Jocks and Frogs always drift together), and something that would have made his Celestial Majesty's eyes start from his princely head—two sowars of Fane's in full fig being carried carefully to their horses by their mates for guard-mounting, so that no speck of dust should blemish the perfection of tunic and long boots, or the polish of lance, sword, pistols, and carbine. Probyn eyed them jaundiced-like, stroking his fair moustache.

"If they take the stick again, Fane'll be insufferable," says he. "What, you'd like the Manchoo Emperor to see all this? Don't fret, old fellah—he will."

Author's Note posted:

According to British Army custom, the most smartly turned out member of a guard was (and possibly still la) excused guard duty, and given the light task of orderly to the guard. This is known as "taking the stick", possibly because the orderly would carry a cane rather than a weapon. The practice of carrying the guard on to parade was still occasionally seen in India in the editor's time, forty years ago.

Genghis Cohen posted:

Tartars is basically Flashman's not very ethnically precise way of referring to the Manchurians, the people who basically invaded China proper and created the Qing dynasty, which is ruling China at this point. So when the text refers to the Imperials, a lot of their soldiers are Tartars.

quote:

He left me at the causeway, and I drove on alone to Pehtang, a moth-eaten village on the river boasting one decent house, where Elgin and his staff were quartered. I tiffined first with Temple of the military train, who deafened me with complaints about the condition of our transport—poor forage for the beasts, useless coolies, officers overworked ("for a miserly nine and sixpence a day buckshee, let me tell you!"), the native ponies were hopeless, the notion of issuing a three-day cooked ration in this climate was lunacy, and it was a rotten, piddling war, anyway, which no one at home would mind a bit. It sounded like every military train I'd seen.

"Frogs just a damned nuisance, of course—no proper pro-vision, an' three days late," says he with satisfaction. "How the blazes Bonaparte ever got 'em on parade beats me. We should go without 'em."

Everyone says that about the French, and it's gospel true—until it's Rosalie's breakfast time*(* Time for action. Rosalie was the long French sword-bayonet.), and then Froggy'll be first into the breach ahead of us, just out of spite.

Elgin was in the backyard of his house, stamping about in his shirt-sleeves, snapping dictation at Loch, his secretary, while my Canton inquisitor, Parkes, sat by. I heard Elgin's sharp, busy voice before I saw him; as I halted in the gateway he turned, glaring like a belligerent Pickwick, and hailed me in mid-sentence with a bark and a wave.

.. and I have the honour to refer your excellency to the Superintendent's letter of whenever-it-was … Ha, Flashman! At last! … and to repeat the assertion … wait, Loch, make that warning … aye, the warning conveyed in my notes of so-and-so and so-and-so … that unless we have your assurance … solemn assurance … that our ultimatum will be complied with directly …"

Still dictating, he rummaged in a letter-case and shoved a packet at me; to my astonishment it was addressed in my wife's simpleton scrawl, and I'd have pocketed it, but Elgin waved me peremptorily to read it, so I did, while he went on dictating full spate.

quote:

"Oh, my Darlingest Dear One, how I long to see you!" it began, and plunged straight into an account of how Mrs Potter was positive that the laundry were pinching our Best Linen sheets and sending back rubbish, so she had approved Mrs Potter's purchase of one of Williamson's new patent washing-machines and did I think it a Great Extravagance? "I am sure it must prove Useful, and a Great Saving. Shirts require no hand-rubbing! Qualified Engineers are prompt to carry out repairs, tho' such are seldom necessary Mrs Potter says." She (Elspeth, not Mrs Potter) loved me Excessively and had noticed in the press an Item which she was sure I must find droll—a Bishop's daughter had married the Rev. Edward Cheese! Such a comical name! She had been to Hanover Square to hear Mr Ryder read "MacBeth"—most moving altho' Shakespeare's notions of Scottish speech were outlandish and silly, and she and Jane Speedicut had been twice to "The Pilgrim of Love" at the Haymarket, and Jane had wept in a most Affected way "just to attract Attention, which she needn't have bothered in that unfortunate lilac gown, so out of style!!" She missed me, and please, I must not mind about the washing-machine for if she hadn't Mrs P. might have Given Notice! Little Havvy hoped his Papa would kill a Chinaman, and enclosed a picture of Jesus which he had drawn at school. "Oh, come to us soon, soon, dear Hero, to the fond arms of your Loving, Adoring Elspeth. xxxxx!!!"

quote:

I ain't given to sentimental tears, but it was a close thing, standing in that hot, dusty yard with the smell of China in my nostrils, holding that letter which I could picture her writing, sighing and frowning and nibbling her pen, rumpling her golden curls for inspiration, burrowing in her dictionary to see how many s's in "necessary", smiling fondly as she kissed young Havvy's execrable drawing—eleven years old the little brute was, and apparently thought Christ had a green face and feathers in his hair. If she'd written pages of Undying Devotion and slop, as she had in our young days, I'd have yawned at it—but all the nonsense about washing-machines and "MacBeth" and Jane's dress and the man Cheese was so … so like Elspeth, if you know what I mean, and I felt such a longing for her, just to sit by her, and have her hand in mind, and look into those beautiful wide blue eyes, and tear off her corset, and -

"Flashman!" Elgin was grasping my hand, demanding my news. "Ha! I'm glad to see you! You were despaired of at Shanghai!" The sharp eyes twinkled for an instant. "So you'll write directly to reassure that bonny little wife whose letter I brought, hey? She's in blooming health. Well, sit down, sit down! Tell me of Nanking."

So I did, and he listened with his bare forearms set on the table, John Bull to the life; he'd be fifty then, the Big Barbarian, as the Chinese called him, bald as an egg save for a few little white wisps, with his bulldog lip and sudden barks of anger or laughter. A peppery old buffer, and a deal kinder than he looked how many ambassadors would call on a colonel's wife to carry a letter to her man?—and the shrewdest diplomatic of his day, hard as a hammer and subtle as a Spaniard. Best of all, he had common sense.

He'd made a name in the West Indies and Canada, negotiated the China treaty which we were now going to enforce, and had saved India, no question, by diverting troops from China at the outbreak of the Mutiny, without waiting orders from home. As to his diplomatic style—when the Yankees still had their eye on Canada, and looked like trying annexation, Elgin went through Washington's drawing-rooms like a devouring flame, wining and dining every Southern Democrat he could find, dazzling 'em with his blue blood, telling 'em racy stories, carrying on like `heeryble—and hinting, ever so delicate, that if Canada joined the Great Republic, it would give the Northern Yankees a fine majority in Congress, with all those long-nosed Scotch Calvinists (to say nothing of French Papists) becoming American voters overnight. That set the fire-bells ringing from Charleston to the Gulf, and with the South suddenly dead set against annexation—why Canada never did join the U.S.A., did she? Wily birds, these earls—this one's father had pinched all the best marbles in Greece, so you could see they were a family to be watched.

Author's Note posted:

It is fairly rare for Flashman to show much regard for "politicals", but the three with whom he was to work on the Pekin expedition seem to have been exceptions. They were, in fact, an impressive trio. James Bruce, 8th Earl of Elgin (1811-63) was Britain's most accomplished foreign envoy in the middle years of the century, and served with distinction as governor of Jamaica, governor-general of both Canada and India, and on missions to China and Japan. His great diplomatic service was to prevent annexation of Canada to the U.S., and negotiate the Reciprocity Treaty of 1854, which he was accused of floating through the American Senate on "oceans of champagne". Harry Parkes, former Canton commissioner and Elgin's interpreter, was to spend his life in the Orient, and make a name in both China and Japan; small, wiry, tenacious, and a glutton both for work and punishment, he had an adventurous career, distinguished by his ability to survive attempts on his life. He was the first foreigner ever received in private audience by the Mikado. Henry Loch (1827-1900), as Flashman indicates, already had a highly active service career behind him, belied by his gentle disposition and scholarly appearance; he was to write the standard work on the Pekin expedition, and was subsequently governor of the Cape, of Victoria, Australia, and of the Isle of Man, where he had the unusual distinction of having part of the sea-front named after him. (See James Bruce, Extracts from the Letters of James, Earl of Elgin … 1847-62 (1864); G. Wrong, The Earl of Elgin (1905); Theodore Waldron, editor, Letters and Journals of James, 8th Earl of Elgin (1872); Henry (Lord) Loch, Personal Narrative of … Lord Elgin's Second Embassy to China, 1860 (1869); S. Lane-Poole, Sir Harry Parkes in China, (1901); Samuel Eliot Morison, Oxford History of the American People, vol ii, 1972).

quote:

"An unsavoury crew of fanatics," was his comment when I'd told him of the Taipings. "Well, thanks to you, we should be able to keep them from Shanghai, and once the treaty's signed, their bolt's shot. The Imperial Chinese Government can set about 'em in earnest—with our tacit support, but not our participation. Eh, Parkes?"

"Yes … the trouble is, my lord," says Parkes, "that those two terms have a deplorable habit of becoming synonymous."

"Synonymous be damned!" snaps Elgin. "H.M.G. will not be drawn into war against the Taipings. We'd find ourselves with a new empire in China before we knew it." He heaved up from the table and poured coffee from a spirit kettle. "And I have no intention, Parkes, of presiding over any extension of the area in which we exhibit the hollowness of our Christianity and our civilisation. Coffee, Flashman? Yes, you can light one of your damned cheroots if you want to—but blow the smoke the other way. Poisoning mankind!"

There you have three of Elgin's fads all together—he hated tobacco, was soft on Asiatics, and didn't care for empire-building. I recall him on this very campaign saying he'd do anything "to prevent England calling down God's curse on herself for brutalities committed on yet another feeble Oriental race." Yet he did more to fix and maintain the course of British empire than any man of his day, and is remembered for the supreme atrocity. Ironic, ain't it?

The letter he'd been dictating had been yet another demand to the local Manchoo governor for free passage to Pekin, which the Chinks had previously agreed to—and were now hindering for all they were worth, as at Sinho and Tang-ku.

"Perhaps when we've stormed the forts they may realise the folly of resistance," says Loch. He was a tall, grave young file with a great beard, who looked a muff until you learned he'd been a Navy middy at 13, aide to Gough at 17, adjutant of Skinner's Horse at 23, and come through Sutlej and Crimea. Parkes laughed.

"Why should they? The Emperor's not there; he won't suffer. Nor his ministers, Prince Sang and the like, who feed him vain lies about sweeping us into the sea. The Emperor believes them, the decree goes forth, the local commanders put up a futile fight, and send wild accounts to Pekin of how they've licked us. So the fool's encouraged in his folly, and all his concubines clap their little hands and tell him he's lord of creation."

"He's bound to learn the truth eventually, though."

"In the Imperial Palace? My dear Loch, it's another world! Suppose they do learn they've lost Sinho, for example—it won't have happened before their eyes, at Pekin, so … it simply didn't happen, you see? That's Chinese Imperial logic."

"Who's Prince Sang?" I asked, remembering the swine who'd had Moyes butchered—and to whom I'd kow-towed.

"A brute and a firebrand," grunts Elgin. "Prince Sang-kol-in-sen—our fellows call him Sam Collinson. Mongol general commanding the Emperor's forces; he's in the Taku Forts this minute, which is why we'll certainly have to fight for them." 'Nuff said; I'd met Prince Sang.

I asked when we'd advance on the forts, and he glowered and said, in a week, twiddling his scanty wing of hair, a sure sign of irritation.

"We're too damned cumbersome by half!" says he. "I told Palmerston five thousand men would do; but no, Parliament thinks we're still fighting the damned Bengal sepoys, so we must have three times that number." He champed and snorted, tugging away. "A confounded waste of men, material, and time! Wait till the Commons get the bill, though! And to be sure, the fools of public will ask what it was for—they'll expect victories, a dozen V.C.s, and enough blood and massacre to make their flesh creep. Well, they'll not get 'em if I can help it! This is not a war, but an embassy. And this is not an expeditionary force, it's an escort!"

quote:

James Bruce, 8th Earl of Elgin (1811-63) was Britain's most accomplished foreign envoy in the middle years of the century, and served with distinction as governor of Jamaica

tokenbrownguy posted:

1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Elgin and Kincardine, Earls of posted:

He began his official career in 1842 at the age of thirty, as governor of Jamaica. During an administration of four years he succeeded in winning the respect of all classes. He improved the condition of the negroes and conciliated the planters by working through them.

quote:

He'd gone quite pink, and by the way Parkes was pulling his nose and Loch studying the distance, I could guess it was a well-played air. After a moment he left off trying to pull his hair loose.

"Our assault on Taku will take a week to prepare because the field command changes daily, to keep the French happy—Grant handed over to Montauban during our attack on Sinho, if you please! Oh, 'twas safe enough, and Montauban's a sensible man—but it's not a system that makes for expedition. We'd have been better with a small, mobile force—and no French.

Author's Note posted:

An opinion Elgin was to revise before the campaign was over. British opinion of the French was, as usual, highly critical, but on the march Elgin noted that the French soldiers were better improvisers than the British, and adapted well to the conditions. "Our soldiers do little for themselves, and their necessities are so great, that we move but slowly. The French work in all sorts of ways for the army. The contrast is, I must say, very striking." (Elgin, Letters and Journals.)

quote:

Ah, well!" He gave his hair a final wrench and suddenly grinned. "We shall have to see. Eh, Loch? As our old nurses would have said, `a sair fecht'. For your benefit, Parkes, that means a long, weary struggle."

How long, I asked Parkes when he showed me to my billet, and he pursed his lips officially.

"To Pekin? Oh, a month, perhaps … six weeks?"

"God save us—you ain't serious?"

"I try to be. Elgin's perfectly correct—we're too many, and Sir Hope, with his many fine qualities is … methodical. What with the French, and the Manchoos lying and procrastinating at every step … well, as his lordship's interpreter, I expect to be chin-chinning to Chinamen quite excessively." He paused in my doorway and gave a resigned sigh. "Ah, well … at least it should be a quiet little war. We dine at six, by the way; a coat is sufficient."

The great Taku Forts went down on the 21st, as advertised, to the astonishment of the Manchoos, who thought them impregnable, and the chagrin of the Frogs, who had violently opposed Grant's plan of attack. They wanted to assail the forts on both sides of the river; Grant said no, settle the Great North Fort and the job's done. Montauban squawked and hooted, saying it was an affront to military science, but Grant just shook his head: "North fort goes, rest'll submit. You'll see. Bonjour," and carried on, humming bull-fiddle tunes. His force might be unwieldy, as Elgin said, but it was damned expert: he built two miles of road to the approaches, had volunteers swimming the river by night to mine the defences, hammered the place with siege guns and a naval bombardment, and sent in the infantry with pontoons and ladders to carry the walls—and sure enough, the infuriated Crapauds made sure they got in first.


Your correspondent bore no part beyond loafing up, when the Chinese guns had been safely silenced, to offer cheer and comfort to Major Temple before the final assault. A week ago he'd been damning his coolies for useless, but now he was in a desperate fret for their welfare—they were to carry in the scaling ladders in the teeth of cannon, jingal-fire, spears, stinkpots and whatever else the Manchoos were hurling from the walls, and Temple, the rear end, was determined to go in with them. I found him croaking under his brolly, waiting for the word, but for once his complaint wasn't a military one.

"These bloody magistrates!" cries he. "Have you seen the China Mail? Heenan's been held to bail at Derby, an' he an' Sayers are to be charged with assault! Damned nonsense! Why can't they leave sport alone?

Author's Note posted:

The fight between Tom Sayers, the Pimlico bricklayer, and John Camel Heenan, U.S.A., for the equivalent of the modern world heavy-weight title, had taken place at Farnborough in April and ended in a draw after 60 rounds, by which time neither man was fit to continue. The exchanges had been so brutal that there was an outcry, and the new Marquess of Queensberry rules were introduced a few years later. This was the last bare-knuckle prize fight in England.

quote:

Ahah!" he roars, waving to the Frog colonel. "Ready, are we? Sortons, is that it? Come on, you chaps! China forever!" And he was away, bounding over the ditches, with his yellow mob at his heels and the Frog infantry in full cry, bursting with la gloire. They had warm work crossing the moats and canals, but they and our own 44th and 67th carried the walls with the bayonet—and as Grant had said, out came the white silk flags on the other forts. Four hundred Manchoos were killed out of five hundred; we lost about 30, and ten times as many wounded. The coolies behaved famously, Temple said.

Parkes and Loch and I were in the party sent across the river to arrange terms with Hang-Fu, the local mandarin, a leery ancient with the opium shakes who received us in a garden, sitting on a chair of state with a mighty block of ice underneath to keep him cool, and his minions carrying his spectacles and chopsticks and silver watch in embroidered cases. He served us champagne, but when Parkes demanded a signed surrender the old fox said he daren't, not being military, and Prince Sang had already left up-river.

Parkes then came all over diplomatic, promising to blow the forts to kingdom come, at which Hang-Fu said, well, the Emperor would be graciously pleased to give us temporary occupation of them (which we already had) and we could take our gunboats up to Tientsin. Parkes almost had to take him by the throat to get it in writing, and then we ploughed back to the boat in the dark, past the huge gloomy fort-buildings, with slow-fuse mines which the Chinks had thoughtfully left behind exploding here and there. (Another trick was to bury cocked gun-locks with bags. of powder, for the unwary to tread on; subtle, eh?—and yet some of their fort guns were wooden dummies.) I was never so glad to get back to a boat in my life.

quote:

So now the way was clear, and with the gunboats leading the way up the twisty moonlit river, it began: the famous march on Pekin, the last great stronghold on earth that had never seen a white soldier, the Forbidden City of the oldest of civilisations, the capital of the world, to the Chinese, having dominion over all mankind. And now the foreign devils were coming, the whining pipes echoing out across the sodden plain, the jaunty little poilus with their kepis tilted, stepping it out, the jingling troopers of Fane's and Probyn's with the sun a-twinkle on their lance-heads, the Buffs swinging by to the odd little march that Handel wrote for them (so Grant told me) , the artillery limbers churning up the mud, the Hampshire yokels and Lothian ploughboys, the Sikhs and Mahrattas and Punjabis, McCleverty hare to the waist in the prow of his gunboat, Wolseley halting his pony to sketch a group of coolies, Napier riding silent, shading his eyes ahead, Elgin sitting under the awning of Coromandel fanning himself with his hat and reading The Origin of Species, Montauban careering up and down the columns with great dash, chattering to his staff, Grant standing by the road-side, tugging his grizzled whiskers and touching his cap to the troops who cheered him as they marched by.

Fifteen thousand horse, foot and guns rolling up the Peiho, not to fight or to hold or to conquer, but just so that the Big Barbarian could stand before the Son of Heaven and watch him put his mark on paper. "And when he does," says Elgin, "the ends of the earth will have met at last, and there will be no more savage kings for our people to subdue. We've come a long way from our northern forests; I wonder if we were wise."

Author's Note posted:

Flashman is right in supposing that the regimental march of the Buffs is attributed to Handel, but almost certainly wrong in saying that it was played on the march to Pekin: the Buffs had been left behind to guard the Taku Forts, while the 60th were left at Sinho, and the 44th sent as reinforcements to Shanghai, thus reducing the army to a more manageable size. As to the Handel attribution, there is no conclusive proof that he wrote the march, although the Buffs' tradition is strong on the point; the suggestion is that the composer had an affection for the regiment, with its distinguished record of Continental service, and perhaps also because it had its origins in the old trained bands of London, his adopted home. (See Fortescue, vol. XIII; Walter Wood, The Romance of Regimental Marches.)

quote:

The Chinese evidently thought not, for having given us fawning assurance of free passage and no resistance, they hampered us every yard to Tientsin. Transport and beasts had vanished from the country, the local officials used every excuse to delay us, and to make things worse the weather was at extremes of broiling heat and choking dust or deluges of rain and axle-deep mud. Fortunately the Manchoos hadn't had the wit to break bridges or block channels, and the peasantry, with a fine disregard for Imperial policy, were perfectly ready to repair our road and sell us beef and mutton, fruit, vegetables and ice at twenty times their proper price. Snug on Coromandel, I could endure our leisurely progress, but Parkes was plumb in the path of all the Manchoos' growing insolence and deceit, and I could see his official smile getting tighter by the hour.

"At this rate we may reach Pekin by Christmas. The more we submit to their lies and hindrance, the less they respect us." He was at the rail, glaring coldly at the glittering salt-heaps that lined the banks below Tientsin. "In '58, after we shelled Canton, the river banks were black with Chinese—kow-towing. You will observe, Sir Harry, that they do not kow-tow today. Much as I admire our chief, I cannot share his recently-expressed satisfaction that in these enlightened times we no longer require every Chinaman to take off his hat to us."

But even Elgin's patience was beginning to wear thin. Some-how he preserved a placid politeness through every meeting with Manchoo officials who barely concealed their satisfaction in wasting time and frustrating our progress, but afterwards he'd be in a fever to get on, snapping at us, tugging his fringe, urging Grant and Montauban with an energy that stopped just short of rudeness; Montauban would bridle and Grant would nod, and then we staff-men would get pepper again. He was bedevilled, trying to keep the Chinks sweet and the advance moving, fearful of provoking downright hostility, but knowing that every hour lost was time for the war party in Pekin to get their nerve back after Taku; we knew Sang-kol-in-sen was back in the capital, urging resistance, and Elgin in his impatience was being tempted by a new Manchoo ploy—speedy passage to Pekin in return for a promise of active British help against the Taipings, which he daren't concede or bluntly refuse.

Author's Notes posted:

Flashman gives a condensed but accurate account of the march to Pekin, which finally took 44 days to complete. For fuller accounts see Loch; Wolseley; Grant and Knollys; Rev. R. J. L. McGhee, How We Got to Pekin (1862); R. Swinhoe (Hope Grant's interpreter), Narrative of the North China Campaign (1861); D. Bonner-Smith and E. W. R. Lumley (Navy Records Society), The Second China War, 1944; Robert Fortune, Yedo to Pekin (1863).
And
It is not often that the editor finds it necessary to supplement Flashman's narrative with any important matter, but the present glaring omission has to be filled. Having devoted almost half his narrative to his mission to Nanking, and his efforts to prevent the Taipings taking Shanghai, the author now blandly forgets all about the matter; of course, it is quite characteristic that he should no longer have cared whether Shanghai fell or not, since he was safely away from it, but one would have expected at least a line about the outcome, especially since Elgin had just drawn it to his attention. For the Manchu request for British help against the Taipings was prompted by the news from Shanghai, where Loyal Prince Lee's forces had been repulsed by British marines and Sikhs on August 18-21. It was not a major action, although the Taipings suffered some casualties; Lee's reaction appears to have been one of bewildered disappointment at being rejected by fellow-Christians. His failure seemed to do him no harm in the Taiping hierarchy.

quote:

If Bismarck or D'Israeli or Metternich had had to sit through those interminable hours, listening to those bland, lying old dotards, and then received that slap in the face, I swear they'd have started to scream and smash the furniture. Elgin didn't even blink. He listened to Parkes's near-choked translation of that astounding insolence, thanked the mandarins for their courtesy, stood up, bowed—and told Parkes, almost offhand, to pass 'em the word that they now owed Britain four million quid for delays and damage to our expedition. Oh, aye, and the treaty would now contain a clause opening Tientsin to European trade.

Back on Coromandel he was grimly satisfied. "Their bad faith affords the perfect excuse for proceeding to Pekin forthwith. Sir Hope, the army will no-longer halt when discussions take place; if they want to talk we'll do it on the march. And if they don't like it, and want a fight, they can have it."

Suddenly everyone was grinning; even Parkes was delighted, although he confided to me later that Elgin should have taken a high hand sooner. Elgin himself looked ten years younger, now that he'd cast the die, but I thought exuberance had got the better of him when he strode into the saloon later, threw The Origin of Species on the table, and announced:

"It's very original, no doubt, but not for a hot evening. What I need is some trollop."

I couldn't believe my ears, and him a church-goer, too. "Well, my lord, I dunno," says I. "Tientsin ain't much of a place, but I'll see what I can drum up —"

"Michel's been reading Dr Thorne since Taku," cries he. "He must have finished it by now, surely! Ask him, Flashman, will you?" So I did, and had my ignorance enlightened.

Author's Note posted:

Flashman may not have persuaded General Sir John Michel to part immediately with Dr Thorne, the new best-seller by Anthony Trollope, since it is known that Lord Elgin was reading it some months later. It and Darwin's Origin of Species, published the previous year, were his lordship's relaxation during his China mission.

quote:

It was bundle and go now. We left 2nd Division at Tientsin, shed all surplus gear, and cracked away at twice our previous pace, while the Manchoos plagued Elgin with appeals to stop the advance—they would appoint new commissioners, they had further proposals, there must be a pause for discussion—and Elgin replied agreeably that he'd talk to 'em at Tang-chao, as agreed. The Manchoos were frantic, and now we saw something new—great numbers of refugees, ordinary folk, streaming towards us from Pekin, in evident fear of what would happen when we arrived. They flooded past us, men, women, and children, with their possessions piled on rickety carts—I remember one enormous Mongol wheeling four women in a barrow. But no sign of armed opposition, and when our local guides and drivers decamped one night, spirits were so high that no one minded, and Admiral Hope and Bowlby, the Times correspondent, took over as mule-skinners, whooping and hawing like Deadwood Dick. We swung on up-river, the gun-boats keeping pace and the Frog band thumping "Madelon", for now Pekin was barely thirty miles ahead, and we were going to see the elephant at last, seven thousand cavalry and infantry ready for anything, not that it mattered for the Manchoo protests had subsided to whines of resignation, and we were coming home on a tight rein, hurrah, boys, hurrah!

And the dragon … waited.

It happened the day after we held divine service in a big temple, and afterwards there was much fun while we looked over a book of pictures which Beato, who'd been photographing the march, presented to Elgin. Word came that new Manchoo commissioners, including the famous Prince I, were waiting just up ahead, at Tang-chao, and they hoped the army would camp on the near side of the town while we negotiated the details of Elgin's entry to Pekin.

"Go and see him," says Elgin to Parkes, so on the Monday, in the cool of a beautiful dawn, about thirty of us set out to ride ahead. There was Parkes, Loch, De Normann from Bruce's office, Bowlby of The Times, and myself, with six Dragoon Guards and twenty of Fane's sowars under young Anderson, as escort. Walker, the Q.M.G., and Thompson of the commissariat rode along to inspect the camp site.

We trotted up the dusty road, myself in the lead as senior officer, with Parkes (who rode like an ill-tied sack of logs, by the way). To our right was the river, half a mile off, and on our left empty plain and millet fields to the horizon. Beyond a little village we were met by a mandarin with a small troop of Tartar cavalry, who said he would show us our camp-site; it proved to be to the right of the road, where the river took a great loop, near a village called Five-li Point. Walker and I thought it would do, although he'd have preferred to be closer to the river, for water; the mandarin assured us that water would be brought to us, and as we rode on he chatted amiably to Parkes and me, telling us he'd been in command of the garrison we'd defeated at Sinho.

"As you can see." He touched the button on his hat; it was white, not red. "I was also degraded by losing my peacock feather," he added, grinning like a corpse, and Parkes and I made sounds of commiseration. "Oh, it is no matter!" cries he. "Lost honours can be regained. As Confucius says: Be patient, and at last the mulberry leaf will become a silk robe."

I remember the proverb, because it was just then that I chanced to look round. The six Dragoons had been riding immediately behind Parkes and me since we set out, in double file, but I'd paid 'em no special heed, and it was only as I glanced idly back that I saw one of them was watching me—staring at me, dammit, with the oddest fixed grin. He was a typical burly Heavy with a face as red as his coat under the pith helmet, and I was just about to ask what the devil he meant by it when his grin broadened—and in that moment I knew him, and knew that he knew me. It was the Irishman who'd been beside me when Moyes was killed.