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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have been thirty yards wide by three hundred long, spanning the muddy yellow Peiho. This was the bridge of Pah-li-chao, and here I saw an amazing sight.
On the approaches to the bridge, and for miles to my left, was drawn up the Chinese Imperial Army. I’ve heard there were thirty thousand; I’d say double that number, but no matter. They stood in perfect parade order, regiment on regiment stretching away as far as I could see: Tartar cavalry in their coloured coats and conical fur hats, lances at rest; rank after rank of massive Bannermen in clumsy armour and barred helms; Tiger soldiers like yellow Harlequins, chanting their war-song; robed jingal-men, two to a piece, their fuses smouldering; half-naked Mongol infantry like stone Buddhas with drawn swords; armoured horsemen with long spears and antique firearms, their wide plated coat-skirts giving them the appearance of gigantic beetles; pig-tailed musketeers in pyjama dresses of black silk and yellow pill-box hats; batteries of their ridiculous artillery, long-barrelled ancient cannon with muzzles carved in fantastic dragon mouths, the stone shot piled beside them, crashing out ragged salvoes that shook the ground – and over all fluttered banners of every hue and design, shimmering in the sunrise, great paper tigers and hideously-featured effigies to frighten the enemy. Above the explosion of the guns rose the hellish din of gongs and cymbals and fifes and rattles and fireworks – China hurling defiance at the barbarians. The noise swelled to a deafening crescendo as the guns fell silent; then it too died to a conclusion, and through the ranks of the tremendous host swept a roar of human sound, pealing out into a final great shout – and then silence.
Silence … a dead, eery quiet over the flat fields before the army, stretching off into the eastern haze. Nothing to be heard but the soft flap of a silk banner, the clink of a stirrup-iron, the gentle swirl of a tiny dust-devil on the marble flags of the bridge, until out of the hazy distance came the far-off voice of a bugle, followed by the faintest of whispers down the wind, a piper playing “Highland Laddie”, and the great Imperial army bristled down its length like an angry cat and the horns and cymbals blared again in deafening reply.
My horseman gave an angry shout and spurred up the bridge so suddenly that I was thrown off my feet and dragged across the flags until I managed to stumble up after him. He cast me loose before a knot of mounted officers on the summit; their leader was an ugly, pock-marked mandarin in black plate armour and a pagoda helmet, who flourished a fighting-iron at me.
“Throw this pig in with the rest of the herd!” he bawls, and I saw that behind him, on the parapet, was another of their infernal cages; an iron one this time, as long as an omnibus, containing half a dozen ragged wretches. I was seized and thrust up on to the parapet and through the low iron door; a cry of astonishment met me, and then Brabazon was gripping my hand – a ragged, hollow-eyed Brabazon with his arm in a tattered sling; he was as filthy as I.
“Colonel Flashman! You’re alive! Oh, thank God! Thank God you’re safe, sir!”
“You call this safe, do you?” says I. He stared, and cackled.
“Eh? Oh, my word – not too safe, perhaps! No … oh, but it’s famous to see you, sir! You see, we feared we were the only …” He gestured at his companions – a couple of Sikhs, trying to sit up to attention, a dragoon half-slumped down against the bars, a frail little stick of a man with long silver hair, in a priest’s robe. “But Mr Parkes, sir? Mr Loch? What of them?”
I said I believed they were dead. He groaned, and then cried: “Well, at least you’re alive, sir!”, and the dragoon chuckled, raising his head.
“Shure, an’ why wouldn’t he be? Ye don’t kill Flash Harry that easy – do ye, colonel?” says Trooper Nolan.
He had a bloody bandage round his brow, and there was dried blood on his cheek, but he was wearing the same slack, calculating grin as he stared at me across the cage. Brabazon gobbled indignantly.
“It’s not for you to say so, my man! How dare you address an officer in that familiar style?” He grimaced admiringly at me. “Mind you, it’s true what he says, sir! They can’t keep you down, can they? I’m sure he meant no harm, sir!”
“None taken, my boy,” says I, and sank down in the straw opposite Nolan. I’d forgotten all about the blackmailing brute – and now my fears came rushing back at the sight of that knowing peasant grin. You may think I should have had more immediate cares, but the very sight of these five other prisoners had sent my spirits soaring. Plainly they were regarding us as hostages, and would keep us alive to the bitter end – and when we were free again, there would still be Nolan. I could see he was already contemplating that happy prospect, for when a renewed cannonade by the Chink guns took Brabazon to the bars for a look-see, he leaned forward towards me and says quietly:
“Shure, an’ mebbe we’ll be havin’ our little talk after all, colonel.”
“Any talking we do can wait until we’re out of this,” says I, equally quiet. “Until then, hold your tongue.”
His grin faded to an ugly look. “We’ll see about dat,” he whispered. “Whether I hold it or not … depends, does it not, sorr?”
He sat back against the bars, glowering truculently, and just then there was a sudden uproar on the bridge, and Brabazon was shouting to me to come and look. Smoke was swirling over the bridge from the nearest battery, but when it cleared I saw that the mandarin and his staff were at the parapet just beneath us, pointing and yelling excitedly, and there, far out on the plain, where visibility ended in a bright haze flecked gold by the morning sun, little figures were moving – hundreds of them, advancing out of the mist towards the Imperial army. They couldn’t be more than a mile away, French infantry in open order, rifles at the trail; their trumpets were sounding through the thunder of the Chinese guns, and as the stone shot kicked up fountains of dust among them they held on steadily, moving directly towards us, the Tricolour standards waving before them.
“Oh, vive la France!” mutters Brabazon. “Strange little buggers. See ’em strut, though! Stick it, you Frogs!”
The Chinese horns and gongs were going full blast now, and there was more hullaballoo and racing about on the bridge as lines of British and Indian infantry came into view on the French left flank; in between there was a little line of dust, thrown up by hooves, and above it the twinkling lance-points and the thin slivers of the sabres: Fane’s Horse and the Dragoon Guards, knee to knee. Down beyond the parapet the Chinese gunners were labouring like billy-be-damned; their shot was churning the ground all along the allied line, but still it came on, unhurried and unbroken, and the Chinks were yelling exultantly in their ranks, their banners waving in triumph, for out on the plain could be seen how small was our army, advancing on that mighty mass of Imperials, who outflanked it half a mile on either side. Brabazon was muttering excitedly, speaking my own thought:
“Oh, run away, you silly Chinamen! You ain’t got a hope!”
There was a great stir to the Imperial right, and we saw the Tartar horse were advancing, a great mass swinging out to turn the British flank; the Armstrong shells were bursting above them, little flashes of flame and smoke, but they held together well, weathering it as their stride lengthened to a canter, and Brabazon was beating his fist on the bars.
“My God, do they think Grant’s asleep? He’s been up for hours, you foolish fellows – look! Look there!”
For suddenly a trumpet was shrilling from the allied line, and like a gate swinging on its hinge our cavalry came drumming out of the centre, sweeping round in a deadly arc, the lances going down and the sabres twinkling as they were advanced; like a great fist they tore into the Tartar flank, scattering them, riding them down; as the enemy cavalry wavered and gave back, with Fane’s and the Dragoons tearing into their heart, there was another blast of trumpets, and Probyn’s riders came charging in to complete the rout. Brabazon was bellowing like a madman, and the two Sikhs were dancing at the bars: “Yah sowar! Sat-sree-akal! Shabash!”
Suddenly one of the Sikhs yelled and fell back, blood welling from a gash in his thigh. Nolan caught him, swearing in amazement, and then we saw the Bannerman