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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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.
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.
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 forward, 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 Irishman, 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 still higher, his huge shoulders bunched to strike. The Irishman’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, with a hideous thud, his body was sent hurtling back, and I was face 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.22
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,