Flashman And The Dragon

"Not to Shanghai," says she. "Not even to Kiangyin. This is Triad country, so we go west, until we are strong again—thirty, forty swords. Then let the Butterflies feud!" And she sneered at Mao, the argumentative one.

"Then let me go," says I. "I pledge two hundred taels, to be paid to you wherever you wish. I'll make my own way back."

She studied me, leaning back on her elbow—and if you don't think that shirt, bloody breeches, and great clog sandals can look elegant, you're mistaken. The long hungry face was smiling a little, as a cat might smile if it could. "No. You were going to Nanking. We can take you there … or farther." And for the first time since I'd met her, she dropped her eyes.

"Hey!" cries Yei, who I learned was the gang idiot, and had just reached a conclusion the others had known long ago. "She wants him to—!" Obviously they'd all gone to the same elocution class. "That's why she wants to keep him with us!

Her response might have been to blush and say, "Really, Yei!"—and perhaps, by Chinese bandit standards, it was. For she was on her feet like a panther, reached him in two great strides, plucked him up wriggling by the neck, and laid into him with a bamboo. He yelled and struggled while she lambasted him mercilessly at arm's length until the stick broke, when she swung him aloft in both hands, dashed him down, and trampled on him.

He came to after about ten minutes, by which time I had lost any inclination to argue with the lady. "Nanking let it be," says I. "As it happens, I have business with the Loyal Prince Lee." That ought to impress even bandits. "You know the Taipings?"

"The Coolie Kings?" She shrugged. "We have marched with them against the Imps, now and then. What is your business with the Chung Wang?"

"Talk," says I. "But first I shall ask him for two hundred taels in silver."

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.

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.⁹

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 cat 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.

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.

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.¹⁰

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.

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.¹¹

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.

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.

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?"

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?"

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 !Agin 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.

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.

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.

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.¹²

"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. 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?¹³

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, presided 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.¹⁴

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.

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.

"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.

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. 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."

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:

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.

"… 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.

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. 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 slay 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?"

Ile 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.

"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.¹⁶

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:

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?" 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.

"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, damn 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."

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."¹⁸

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 niggers 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.

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 nigguh 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. "Damn 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 ass 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. 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); for the moment I'll say only that while Gordon finished the Taiping business, it was young happy-go-lucky Fred who broke the ground for him, and turned that drunken mob of green caps into one of the great free companies: the Ever-Victorious Army. Aye, Ward and Gordon: a good pair to stay away from.¹⁹

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!"²⁰

"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.

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 soup²¹ . 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.

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.

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