Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 4: Flashman and the Dragon, Flashman on the March, Flashman and the Tiger. George Fraser MacDonald
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while a Taiping attack on Shanghai would destroy any hope of British co-operation, restraint now would certainly not incline us to a less favourable view of their overtures in the future.”
“I can see myself putting that in fluent Mandarin!” says I, and he had the grace to shrug helplessly.
“It is the most I can authorise you to convey. This is the most damned ticklish business. We have to let them see where we stand – but without provoking ’em into action, or offending ’em mortally (dammit, they may be the next government of China!), or, above all, being seen to treat with them in any official way whatsoever. That’s why your presence is a gift from God – you’ve done this kind of business in India, with considerable success, as I recall.” Well, that was so much rot; my diplomatic excursions had invariably ended in battle and beastliness on the grand scale, with my perspiring self barely a length ahead of the field. He got up and glowered at the map, chewing his lip.
“You see how difficult it is for me to give you guidance,” says he. “We do not even know what kind of folk they truly are. The Heavenly King himself has hardly been seen for years – he keeps himself secluded in a great palace, surrounded by a thousand female attendants, thinking wonderful thoughts!” I was willing to bet he didn’t spend all his time thinking. “If he could be persuaded to inaction … to hold Lee in check …” He shrugged. “But who is to say if he is even rational, or if you will be allowed near him? If not, you must do what you can with Loyal Prince Lee.”
A splendid choice, you’ll agree, between a recluse who thought he was Christ’s brother, and a war-lord who’d done more murder than Genghiz Khan.
“The only other who may be open to reason is the Prime Minister, Hung Jen-kan. He’s the wisest – or at least the sanest – of the Taiping Wangs. Mission educated and speaks English. The rest are ignorant, superstitious zealots, drunk on blood and power, and entirely under the sway of the Heavenly King.” He shook his head. “You must use such tactful persuasions as seem best; you will know, better than I could tell you, how to speak when you are face to face with them.”
In a high-pitched shriek, probably. Of all the hopeless, dangerous fool’s errands … supposing I even got there.
“How do I reach Nanking? Aren’t the Imps blockading the river?”
“A passage has been booked on Dent’s steamer Yangtse. She got through to Nanking last week – the Imps give our vessels passage, and the river will be clear as far as Kiangyin still. If she’s stopped there you must go on as seems best; one of our people, a missionary called Prosser, will be looking out for you – you’ll have papers from the London Missionary Society, in the name of Mr Fleming, but the Taipings will know precisely who and what you really are, although neither they nor you will acknowledge it.”
So it was settled; I was for the high jump again, and not a damned thing to be done about it. He went over it all a second time, impressing on me the delicacy of the task, how H.M.G. must be in no way compromised, that every week of delay would be a godsend – but the main thing was to convince this crew of homicidal madmen that, whoever they killed next, it shouldn’t be done at Shanghai.
“Well, sir,” says I, all noble and put-upon, “I’ll be honest; I’ll try, but I don’t think there’s a hope of success.”
“Another man might say that out of reluctance to go, for his safety’s sake,” says he solemnly. “I know that with you, the thought of danger has not crossed your mind.” He was right there; it had stayed rooted. “God bless you, Sir Harry.” And with the angels choiring above us, we shook hands, and I marched out, and bolted for the lavatory.
I had my Adams in my armpit, a Colt in my valise, a hundred rounds, a knife in my boot, and a bulky notebook containing every known fact about the Taipings, courtesy of Messrs Fat and Lin, when I boarded the Yangtse on the following evening. It was a good two-day run to Nanking, in ideal conditions; at present, it might take a week. I was too sick and scared and furious to pay much heed to my surroundings, and as I remember the Yangtse was like any other river steamboat – half a dozen cabins aft for the Quality, of whom I was one, a couple of saloons below for those who couldn’t afford a bunk, and forward a great open steerage for the coolies and the like. Her skipper was one Witherspoon, of Greenock, a lean pessimist with a cast in his eye and a voice like coals being delivered. I’ve no doubt I spent the time before we cast off brooding fearfully, but I don’t recall, because as I leaned on the rail looking down on the quay and the oily water, I saw about the only thing that could have provided any distraction just then.
The steerage gangway was swarming with coolies, and poorer Chinese, and a few white riff-raff – Shanghai was well stocked with poor whites and shabby-genteel half-castes and scourings from half the countries on earth, even in those days. There was lascars, of course, and Dagoes of various descriptions, Filippinos, Greeks, Malay Arabs, and every variety of slant-eye. Some of ’em were half-naked; others carried valises and bundles; the half-dozen Sikh riflemen who acted as boat-guards shepherded ’em aboard none too gently under the great flickering slush-lamps which cast weird shadows on the dockside and the steerage deck.
I was watching with half my mind when I noticed a figure stepping from quay to gangway – and even in that motley assembly it was a figure to take the eye – not only for the outlandish cut of attire, but for style and carriage and … animal quality’s the only phrase.
I like tall women, of course. Susie Willinck comes to mind, and Cleonie of the willowy height, and the superb Mrs Lade by name and nature, and Cassy, and that German wench in the Haymarket, and even such Gorgons as Narreeman and Queen Ranavalona. Mind you, there’s much to be said for the little ’uns, too – such as the Silk One, Ko Dali’s daughter, and the little blonde Valla, and Mrs Mandeville the Mad Dwarf, and Whampoa’s playmates, and Takes-Away-Clouds-Woman, and that voluptuous half-pint, Yehonala (but we’ll come to her presently). On the whole, though, I ain’t sure I don’t prefer the happy medium – like Elspeth, and Lola, and Irma, and Josette, and Fetnab, and … Elspeth.
It is no disrespect to any of these ladies, all of whom I loved dearly, to say that when it came to taking the eye, the female coming up the steerage gangplank was the equal of any and all. For one thing, she was six feet six if she was an inch, with the erect carriage of a guardsman, and light on her feet as a leopard. She was Chinese, beyond a doubt, perhaps with a touch of something from the Islands; when she laughed, as she did now, to the squat fellow behind her, it was with a deep, clear ring, and a flash of teeth in a lean, lovely face; not Chinese style, at all. She had a handkerchief bound tight round her head, and for the rest her clothing consisted of a blouse, cotton breeches ending at the knee, and heavy sandals. But round her neck she had a deep tight collar that seemed to be made of steel links, and her arms, bare to the shoulder, were heavy with bangles. As to the lines of her figure, Rubens would have bitten his brush in two.
With the plank crowded ahead of her, she had to wait, holding the side-rail in one hand and lolling back at full stretch, carelessly, laughing and talking to her companion. She chanced to look up, and met my eye; she said something to the man, and looked at me again, laughing still, and then she was up the plank like a huge cat and out of sight.
I’m not the most impressionable of men, but I found I was gripping the rail with both hands, and clenching my jaw in stern resolve. By gum, I couldn’t let that go unattended to. Built like a Dahomey Amazon, but far taller and incomparably more graceful. And possibly the strongest female I’d ever seen, which would be an interesting experience. No common woman, either; how best to coax her up to the cabin? Probably not money, nor a high hand. Well, the first thing was to get a closer look at her.
I waited till we had cast off, and the screw was churning the water, with the lights on Tsungming Island glittering in the dark distance far ahead. Then I asked the steward where the ladder was to the steerage; he pointed down the companion, and said I would find the mate by the saloon door, he’d show me. Sure enough, a fellow in a pilot cap came out of the saloon and started up the ladder as I started down. He glanced up, smiling, starting to bid me good evening, and then his jaw dropped, and my hand shot under my jacket