In a Gazette article entitled “The Fate of the Peiping Captives in the Late War”, you may read how Col. Sir H. Flashman “endured a captivity little better than slavery at the hands of his tormentors”, who treated him “in the most degrading and insulting manner”, and subjected him “to such usage as can seldom have been met with by a British officer in the hands of a savage foreign Power”. It’s gospel true, and omits only that if the Army had known the circumstances they’d have been lining up to change places with me.
I was fourteen memorable days (and nights) in the Summer Palace of Pekin, held thrall by the notorious Yi Concubine, and since they followed the pattern of the first, you may think I was on velvet, which I was … and silk, satin, gauze, fur, grass, marble (which is perishing cold), yellow jade (even colder), Oriental carpet, leather upholstery, a Black Watch tartan rug (wherever that came from), and the deck of a pleasure barge on the Jade Fountain Lake, which was her most extraordinary choice of all, I think. We’d been cruising about, watching a battle between little model gunboats blazing away at each other with tiny brass cannon, when my lady becomes bored, and consequently amorous, and decided she didn’t care to wait till we reached shore – so she made every other soul on board (half a dozen female attendants, two eunuchs, and the entire crew) jump overboard and flounder ashore in ten feet of water, so that I could rattle her undisturbed. Two of the girls were almost drowned.
From this you might suppose that my sojourn was a continuous orgy; not at all. Most of the time I was confined to Yehonala’s pavilion, with a couple of the burliest eunuchs on guard, for she was by no means preoccupied with me in those critical times when she was juggling to catch a crown; sometimes I didn’t see her for two days on end – early in my captivity, for instance, she went with the Emperor to Jehol, forty miles away, where she tucked him up to die out of harm’s way before returning to Pekin for the showdown with Sang and the barbarians. She was plotting and politicking for dear life then, and I was her Wednesday afternoon football match and brandy-and-cigar in the evening, so to speak – and her week-end picnic. A humiliating position which I was mortal glad of after what I’d been through, and I just prayed she wouldn’t lose interest in her new toy before Elgin closed his grip on Pekin. For, incredibly, our army was holding off at the last, fearful that a hostile advance might spell the end of us hostages, yet fearing, too, that delay might be equally fatal.
You may wonder how I knew of this; it arose from Yehonala’s remarkable attitude towards me. I said before that she spoke to me as though I were a pet poodle – and that was precisely how she treated me. Not wholly surprising, perhaps; with all the arrogance and ignorance of the well-born Manchoo, she thought of foreigners (and I was the first she’d ever seen, remember) as rather less than human, and exercised no more reticence before me than you do before Poll or your tabby. And since, quite apart from coupling, it was her whim to keep me on hand in her leisure hours, when she walked or sat in the gardens, or boated, or played games with her ladies, I learned a deal by sitting quiet with my ears open. I suspect she paraded me chiefly to tease Little An, who was her constant attendant and couldn’t abide the sight of me; they’d talk shop by the lily-pond while Fido sunned himself on the grass, the target of apples playfully tossed by her ladies, and took it all in – how Parkes and Loch had been segregated from the other prisoners, and would make ideal candidates for the wire jacket when the time came; yes, the Emperor’s signature was already on the vermilion death warrant, which would be forwarded from Jehol to Pekin whenever she wished; the word from the barbarian camp was that they’d rather negotiate than fight, so she had time in hand if she wished; Prince Kung, the Emperor’s brother, could be relied on when the final struggle came for imperial power … this was the kind of thing they discussed, never dreaming it was understood.
One vital titbit of information explained why Yehonala, instead of staying with the Emperor at Jehol, had returned to the Summer Palace. I gathered that her four-year-old son, Tungchi, to whom she was devoted, was in Pekin, under the care of the Empress Consort Sakota – being heir to the throne, he was far too important to be entrusted to his own mother, who when all was said was only a concubine. This was something that Yehonala, for all her great hidden power, could do nothing about; she could only keep as close to the child as possible, ready to defy protocol by stepping in if he was in any danger, or if the likes of Sang or Prince I tried to get their hands on him. It might come to bloody palace revolution yet, and possession of the infant would be vital – quite apart from her being his doting mama. In the meantime, she could only wait and trust to Sakota, who was her cousin and bosom pal, they having been apprentice concubines together before Sakota was made Empress. (If it seems odd that Yehonala, the Emperor’s favourite, hadn’t managed to grab the consortship, the answer was that his mother, the canny old Dowager, had spotted her for a driving woman, and had decided that Sakota, an unambitious and indolent nonentity, would make a more manageable Empress. The two cousins had no jealousy, by the way; Sakota didn’t mind being Number Two in bed, and Yehonala preferred the harlot’s power to the Imperial title.)
It wasn’t canny, hearing all these state secrets and knowing that the speakers regarded me as no more sensate than the chairs they sat on; I wondered if any spy had ever been so fortunately placed before. The irony was that it was of no practical use; with the eunuchs forever on the prowl, and guards within call, I might as well have been in a dungeon. But at least my own position seemed secure enough, so long as I betrayed no understanding; the really dangerous times were when Yehonala and I were in bed together, and her attention close upon me; her confounded playful poodle-talk unnerved me, for as you’ll guess if you’ve ever listened to a woman scratching a kitten’s belly, it consisted mostly of damfool questions which it took presence of mind not to answer.
“So ugly … so ugly,” she would whisper, lying on my chest and brushing her unbound hair across my face. “So ugly as to be almost magnificent … aren’t you? So misshapen and ungraceful, great lumpy muscles … you’re very strong, aren’t you? Strong and stupid, with teeth like a horse. Open … let me see them. Open, I say … Gods, do you have to be shown everything? Ugh, I don’t want to look at them! Horrible … I wonder what your barbarian women are like? Are they repulsive, too? You’ll find them so, after this, won’t you … after the incomparable Yi Concubine? I must look like a goddess to you … do I look like a goddess? Is it possible you might prefer female barbarians, I wonder? I mean, great apes like each other … but you may never see your barbarian women-apes again … not if I keep you. I might, when my son rules, and I’m all-powerful. Would you like that? I could send you now to Jehol, before your friends come … or I could give you back to them. No, I don’t want to lose you yet … and how unhappy you’d be, without me … wouldn’t you? You must think you’re in heaven, poor barbarian. If only you could speak … why can’t you speak … properly, I mean? Suppose you could, what would you say to me? Would you make love to me with words, like the poets? Do you know what poetry is, even? Could you write a poem in praise of my beauty … in butterfly words fluttering crooked up and down the page of my heart? Jung Lu wrote me a poem once, comparing me to a new moon, which was not very original … What would you compare me to, d’you think? Oh, you’re hopeless! You couldn’t love with words … you know only one way, don’t you? … like a great, greedy beast … like this … no, greedy beast, not like that! Be still … like this … slowly, you see? … this is the Fourteenth Gossamer Caress, did you know? There are more than twenty of them, and the last, the Supreme Delirium, can be experienced only once, for during it the lover dies, they say … let us be content with the Fourteenth … for the moment … then we’ll try the Fifteenth, shall we … ?”
It’s desperate work, listening to that kind of drivel with a straight face, never showing a glimmer of comprehension, in constant fear lest a blink of surprise, to say nothing of an ecstatic shriek in the wrong language, means certain and hideous death. For I had no illusions about this sweet young thing – if she so much as suspected I understood, the wire jacket would be the least of it; the more I knew of her, the more I became aware of what I said some time ago, that she was a compound of five of the Deadly Sins – greed, gluttony, lust, pride, and anger, with ruthlessness, cruelty, and treachery thrown in; it was fatally easy to forget it, gazing on that lovely face, and embracing that wonderful body, or listening to her chaffing Little An, or joking like a mischievous schoolgirl with her ladies – for she had a great sense of fun, and true playfulness, and yet in spite of all that, there’s only one word to describe her: she was a monster.
For one thing, she really enjoyed cruelty, and as an authority in the bullying line myself, I don’t speak lightly. Ranavalona of Madagascar has always headed my list of atrocious females, but she was raving mad, and did her abominations almost offhand, without emotion. Yehonala was anything but mad, and if her cruelties seem trivial beside those of my Malagassy Moonbeam, she still inflicted them with the relish of a true sadist. She had a servant following her about with a case of canes and switches, and when anyone displeased her, down came the breeches and lay on with a will, farrier-sergeant. When two of her eunuchs caught some crows and released them with firecrackers tied to their legs so that the birds were blown to bits in mid-air, Yehonala had the culprits’ backsides cut to bloody pulp with bamboo whips, watching the infliction of the full hundred strokes with smiling enjoyment. You may say they deserved a drubbing, but you didn’t see it.
Even crueller, I thought, was her treatment of a maid called Willow, who offended in some trivial way. Yehonala ordered another maid to start slapping Willow’s face, and when she didn’t do it hard enough, made Willow slap her back. In the end she had the two little chits thrashing each other in tears, while she laughed and clapped her hands. Add that it was she who constantly urged the slaughter of prisoners, and sent the suicide cords to unfortunate commanders, and I’d say the cruelty case is proved; for ruthlessness and treachery I’d refer you only to her first conversation in my presence.
As to the Deadly Sins – I saw her in a towering rage only once, with the bird-blowing eunuchs, but I’m told that her anger was legendary, and could be berserk in its fury. She wasn’t a glutton in the ordinary sense, but her pleasure in food was voluptuous, especially in dainties like sugared seeds of various kinds, and every kind of confectionery, which seemed to have no effect on her figure. She enjoyed opium, but thought no one else should have it; she also took snuff, from a hollowed-out pearl with a ruby stopper, and was the prettiest sneezer you ever did see, giving tiny little “cheef!” noises and wrinkling her nose. She was uncommon greedy for precious things, which was astonishing since she had everything a woman could conceivably want; yet she gloated over her jewellery and clothing in a way that was positively indecent, and I doubt (from her conversation) if enough money could have been minted to satisfy her. Hand in hand with her delight in clothing, her transparent robes, her pearl capes, her enormous sleeves, her thousand pairs of shoes, the jewels which she would fondle as though they were alive, went her vanity, which was all-consuming – and she had every reason for it. As to her lust … don’t ask me, how would I know?
Perhaps, on consideration, I’m wrong to call her a monster – unless it’s monstrous to indulge an unbridled appetite without regard for anyone or anything. Yes, I think that’s right; I do, and I’m a monster. With Yehonala, everything was extreme; whatever she did was done with every fibre of her, and enjoyed with sensual intensity – whether it was nibbling a sugared walnut, or half-killing a partner in bed, or flaunting a new dress, or having an offender flogged nearly to death, or watching the sun go down over the Fragrant Hills, or ruling an empire … she would squeeze the last drop of savour out of it, and lick her fingers afterwards. If you could have seen her even walking, with that quick, gliding stride, or pinning one of her five hundred jade butterfly brooches to her dress, or playing “The Eight Fairies Travel Across the Sea” game with her ladies, or spraying glycerine on her face to fix her cosmetics – always the same concentration, the same implacable zeal to do it exactly right, the same ambition for perfection. No wonder she became mistress of all China – or that the Emperor died of her mattress gymnastics. Ten years? It’s a marvel he lasted ten days.
I append these details because, since she became one of the great women of history,a an eye-witness account may be of some interest; perhaps it’ll help some clever biographer to plumb the mystery of her character. I can’t; I knew her as a lover, you see, and Dick Burton assures me I’m a hopeless nympholeptic, which sounds good fun. She ravished my senses, right enough, and scared me to death – which, by the way, is true of the only three women (apart from Elspeth) whom I’ve truly loved: Lola, Lakshmibai, and Yehonala. An empress, a queen, and the greatest courtesan of her time; I dare say I’m just a snob.
However, my little character-sketch will have explained my growing anxiety in case she discovered that she was nourishing a Chinese-speaking British viper in her gorgeous bosom. For every day increased that risk … and still Elgin didn’t move. The British and French army seemed to have put down roots at Tang-chao, a mere ten miles from Pekin; I couldn’t fathom Grant’s intentions, with winter coming on, his lines of communication gaping for a hundred miles behind him to the coast, his force still outnumbered at least four to one – if I’d had command of the remaining Tartar cavalry I’d have had him and his army and his bull fiddle bottled on the Peiho yet. The reason, according to Little An, was that the Big Barbarian was scared the prisoners would be murdered if he moved; knowing Elgin, I was sure there must be more to it; in fact, he and Grant were just “makking siccar”, as my wife would say, counting on the very error which I heard Little An making to Yehonala.
“We shall have warning if they move,” says he. “The big guns will sound, the order for the deaths of the barbarian prisoners can be dispatched, and we shall have ample time to retire to Jehol, leaving Sang and Prince I and Sushun and the rest of the reptiles to meet the wrath of the Big Barbarian. Hang-ki has charge of Pa-hsia-li and the other; they can be removed quietly and executed by the jacket whenever you wish. Unless,” he glanced moodily at me, “you will be wise and put that thing away.” Meeting his eye, I smiled amiably and nodded. “What in the name of Yen-lo are you going to do with him, Orchid Lady?”
“Take him to Jehol,” says she. “Why not?”
“Gods! To Jehol – and play the harlot with him while … while the Son of Heaven is dying in the next room?”
“Well, I can hardly play the harlot with the Emperor, in his condition, can I? And you know me, Little An – I have to be playing the harlot with someone, or so you keep telling me.”
“Will you jest, at such a time?” he shrilled. “Oh, little empress, if you have no shame, at least have sense! Prince Kung and the Empress Dowager are lodged only a mile away – in the Ewen-ming-ewen! Suppose word reached them of this beast’s presence? Suppose Sang gets to hear of it? At the moment when you have the prize all but in your grasp – oh, why do I waste time, talking to a lovely idol with an ivory head? How will you hide him in Jehol, or on the road? It’s a full day’s journey!”
“He can travel with the eunuchs. It may be that I’ll keep him as one, eventually. Perhaps make him chief – in place of you. At least he won’t deafen me with impertinence. By the way, we’ll travel to Jehol by night. Have the horse-litters and cavalry escort standing by from tomorrow; the barbarians may come soon now.”
By gad, I hadn’t liked the sound of that. Of course she was just joking – teasing Little An. Wasn’t she? One thing was sure, she wasn’t getting me to Jehol – when those guns sounded, I’d make a run for it, somehow. If I could give my watchdogs the slip, after dark – even if I didn’t get out of the Summer Palace, there were acres of woodland to lie up in … I might even get clear away, and be in time to reach Grant and have him send a flying column slap into the city to rescue Parkes and the others … Probyn or Fane would be in and out before the Chinks knew they’d been. Aye, but I mustn’t run the slightest risk of capture myself – the thought of being dragged back, helpless, to face her fury (they can’t stand being jilted, these autocratic bitches) and Little An’s malice …
“What’s the matter with the filthy brute? He looks as though he’d seen a spirit!” It was Little An’s harsh squeal, and I realised with a thrill of fear that he was staring at me. How I didn’t start round in guilty panic, God knows; I forced myself to sit still – we were in the long ivory saloon of her pavilion, An standing beside her chair while she ate her supper of peaches sliced in honey and wine; myself on a stool about ten feet away. A few of her ladies were playing Go at the other end, laughing and chattering softly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Yehonala had turned to look at me, laying down her spoon. I took a deep breath, pressed my hands to my stomach, and belched gently. She laughed.
“Fried bread dragons. Or love-pangs for his Orchid – eh, Little An?” She returned to her peaches.
“Perhaps.” To my consternation he walked towards me slowly, and I gave him my idiot smile as he paused before me, a thoughtful frown on his pudgy face. “Do you know, Orchid Lady,” says he, watching me, “I have sometimes wondered if this … this stallion of yours … is as senseless as he seems. Once or twice … just now, for instance … I’ve wondered if he doesn’t understand every word we say.”
It was like a douche of cold water, but I daren’t drop my eyes. I could only blink, without interest, and hope the thunder of my heart wasn’t audible.
“What?” Her spoon tinkled into the dish. “Oh, what old wool! Barbarians don’t speak our language, stupid!”
“Pa-hsia-li does. Like a school-master.” His little eyes were bright with suspicion. “So will others. Perhaps this one.”
“And never a word out of him in days? Or any sign of sense? Nonsense! What makes you think so – apart from malice?”
He continued to stare at me. “A look … an expression. A sense.” He shrugged. “I may be wrong … but if I’m not, the tale of your pleasuring him will be the least he can tell.” His eyes narrowed, and I knew what was coming – and began a cavernous yawn to cover the reaction which I knew he was going to startle out of me. Sure enough:
“Look at his thumb!” he squeaked.
Now, I defy anyone in my position not to twitch his thumb, or whatever extremity is mentioned – unless he has set his muscles and begun to yawn, which is a fine suppressor of the guilty start. Hutton, old Pam’s Treasury gun-slinger, taught me that one. I saw the disappointment on Little An’s face, and looked at him serenely.
“If you are right,” says Yehonala, “then he understands us now.”
I glanced at her, reasonably enough, since she’d spoken – and felt sick. She was frowning uncertainly, upright in her chair; she beckoned abruptly, so I got up and went over, meeting her stare with polite interest. After a moment:
“Do you understand me?’ says she sharply, and I smiled hopefully as her eyes stayed steady on mine. Then she pointed at her feet, so I knelt upright in front of her, my face just below the level of her own, about two feet away. She continued to watch me intently, that lovely oval mask expressionless, and then said quietly:
“I don’t know, An … but we must be sure. It’s a pity. Take the sabre from the wall yonder … quietly. When I say ‘Begin’ … strike.”
If it was a bluff, it was bound to work. Even Hope Grant or Rudi Starnberg wouldn’t have been able to repress a flicker when she spoke the fatal word, and my nerves weren’t in the same parish as theirs. I didn’t hear Little An move behind me, but I knew he’d be there, quietly poising that razor-sharp blade, waiting. I could only kneel patiently, praying the sweat wasn’t starting from my brow, meeting her cold gaze with smiling inquiry as I would have done if I’d been innocent, letting my smile fade uncertainly as she didn’t respond. I strove not to gulp, to look easy, knowing it was no go – unless I could think of something I was bound to flinch at the word. In desperation, I lowered my eyes, searching for inspiration … finally letting my glance stray to her bust; she was wearing one of those tight silk Manchoo dresses that button at the throat and are open to the breast-bone, leaving a gap through which appetising curves of Eve’s puddings are to be seen; I stared with rapt interest, moving my head slightly for a better view, moistened my lips, and blew gently at the opening. She flinched, and I glanced up with an insolent suggestive twitch of the brow to let her see how my thoughts were running; there was a shadow of doubt in the dark eyes, so I returned to my leering contemplation of her bouncers with a contented sigh, leaning a little closer and blowing again, a longer sustained breeze this time …
“Begin,” says she softly, and I continued to blow soft and steady, without a tremor, for I knew it was a bluff, and that Little An, far from holding a sabre over my head, was still ten feet away, watching. If you want to play double-dares with Flashy, don’t do it when there’s a polished walnut cabinet reflecting the room behind him.
“Idiot!” snaps Yehonala, and snatching up her spoon she flung it at An’s head. “He doesn’t understand a word! You’re a snivelling old woman … and a spiteful little worm! Now get out, and leave us alone.”
By George, I was glad to see the brute go; he’d had my innards in a rare turmoil for a few minutes, and I knew that now his suspicions were aroused he’d watch me like a lynx. Even in the small hours, when Yehonala had played us both out, I was still too nervous to go to sleep for fear I babbled in Chinese – and next day, to my consternation, I was confined to my room, with the door locked and a Mongol trooper of the Imperial Guards cavalry on sentry, which had never happened before. I glimpsed him when they brought my dinner – a hulking, shaven-headed rascal in a mail coat and yellow sleeves. I demanded in English to be let out, and they slammed the door on me without a word. I ate little dinner, I can tell you, pacing up and down my room with its high, impossibly tiny windows, asking myself if An had been poisoning her mind with suspicions, but as the day wore on my anxieties changed colour – something strange was doing in the Summer Palace. There was distant bustle in Yehonala’s pavilion, voices raised and feet hurrying; outside in the garden, towards evening, there were unmistakable noises of horses going past, and a peremptory voice in Chinese: “I know the litters are there, but the third one’s empty – no cushions or rugs! Why not?” An apologetic mumble, and then: “Well, get them! And stay with the grooms. If anyone wanders off, he’ll walk to Jehol in a cangue!”
So she was going! Was Grant moving at last, then? But there hadn’t been a single cannon-shot, ours or the Chinese; he couldn’t be advancing on Pekin without some hysterical Tartar touching off a field piece, surely? Tang-chao was less than a dozen miles away – the sound of firing would carry easily … but the afternoon light was fading; it wasn’t possible he was coming today, Yehonala’s people must have had a false alarm – and then, far-off, there was the brazen whisper of a Manchoo trumpet, and a drum of approaching hoof-beats, a single rider pounding across the sward, voices calling anxiously at the front of the house, and a hoarse cry of alarm:
“The barbarians! Fly for your lives! They are in the city – the streets run with blood! Everyone is dead, the Temple of Heaven is overthrown, the shops are closed!”
I swear it’s what he said – and even the last part wasn’t true. Not a single allied soldier was in Pekin, nor even a gun threatening its walls, the Manchoo army was watching in vain … but the barbarians were coming, all right. Grant had slipped his hounds without so much as a shout, our cavalry was sweeping in from the north (the last place they might have been expected), with the Frog infantry in support – everyone got lost in the dark and went blundering about famously, but that only added to the Chinese confusion. I knew nothing of that as I listened to the uproar in the pavilion … and now footsteps were padding to my door, it was thrown open, and a eunuch came in, threw me a cloak, and jerked his thumb. I slipped it over the loose tunic and trousers that were my only clothes, and followed him out, my Mongol guard looming behind me as we made our way to the ivory saloon.
The pavilion was in the throes of a flitting. The halls and passageways were cluttered with luggage, servants were staggering out under boxes and bundles, eunuchs fussed everywhere, maids were fluttering in silken confusion, and a stalwart young Manchoo Guards officer was barking orders and cuffing heads in an effort to bring them to order (I recognised the peremptory voice from the garden; although I didn’t know it yet, this was Jung Lu, Yehonala’s old flame and now Imperial Guards commander). Only in the ivory saloon was there comparative peace, with Yehonala looking uncommon fetching in a magnificent snow-leopard robe with a gigantic collar, sitting at ease while Little An fussed about her, and half a dozen of her ladies waited in a respectful semi-circle at the far end, all dressed for the road. She indicated that I should stand by her table, and the Mongol fell in beside me, breathing garlic.
“Why don’t they come?” Little An was squeaking; his face was bright with sweat. “If their soldiers are north of the city, we may be cut off here! How could we escape their devil-cavalry, who speed like flying dragons? Should we not send another messenger, Orchid? What can be keeping them?”
Yehonala stifled a yawn. “The Empress Dowager will have mislaid her eyebrow tweezers. Stop fussing, Little An – the barbarians are intent on Pekin; they won’t come here. Even if they did, Jung Lu has men on the road to bring word.”
Little An glanced round as though he expected to see Elgin climbing in the window, and stooped to whisper. “And if Sang should come? Have you thought of that? We know who he’s after, don’t we? Suppose he were to come with riders – what case are we in to resist him, with only a handful of Guards?”
“Sang has enough to do with the barbarians, fool! Besides, he wouldn’t dare lay hands on the Empress … or on him.” But I saw the silver nails were drumming gently on the arm of her chair.
“You think there’s anything that madman would not dare?” An shrilled. “I tell you, Orchid Lady – the barbarians can have Pekin for him, so long as he can get his claws on –”
“That will do, Eunuch An-te-hai.” The lovely voice had a dangerous edge. “You’re alarming my ladies, which is bad for their digestions. Another word, and you’ll stand on that table and repeat a hundred times: ‘I beg the ladies’ pardon for my unmannerly cowardice, and humbly entreat the Empress of the Western Palace to sentence me to a hundred lashes on my fat little bottom’. And she’ll do it, too.”
That sent her ladies into great giggles, and Little An fell sullenly silent. The noises of exodus were dying away in the pavilion; a door slammed, and then there was silence. I strained my ears – if our fellows were north of the city they couldn’t be more than five miles away. Yehonala was right; they wouldn’t bother with the Summer Palace until Pekin was secure, but if I could make a break, perhaps when we set off … it would be dark …
Brisk footsteps sounded, and the young Guards Commander strode in, halting smartly and bowing his pagoda helmet to his waist. “The Prince Kung and the Lady Dowager have decided to remain, Concubine Yi, but the others will be here in a few minutes.”
“What can have happened to those tweezers?” says Yehonala. “And probably the sleeping pantaloons, too. Ah, well. Are the litters ready, Colonel Jung?”
“Three horse palanquins in the court, Orchid, with the carriage for your ladies.” He was breathing hard. “I’ve sent the servants’ carts ahead, so that they won’t delay us, and had all the gates locked. It will be necessary to reach the court by the garden passage –” he pointed to the narrow arch at the far end of the room, where the ladies stood “– and from the court the Avenue of Dawn Enchantment is walled as far as the Jehol road, where I have a troop waiting.” He paused for breath, and Little An cried:
“Why these precautions? Are the barbarians so close?”
Jung ignored him, speaking direct to Yehonala. He was a good-looking lad, in a dense, resolute sort of way; Guards officers much the same the world over, I suppose.
“Not the barbarians, Orchid … no. My rider at the Anting Gate has not reported. But it would be best to leave quickly, as soon as the Empress arrives. There may be … some danger in delay.”
Little An absolutely farted in agitation and was beginning to squeal, but Yehonala cut in. “Be quiet! What is it, Jung?”
“Perhaps nothing.” He hesitated. “I stationed my sergeant on the Pekin road, half-way. His horse came in just now – without a rider.” There was silence for a moment, then:
“Sang!” shrills Little An. “I knew it! What did I say? Lady, there is no time to lose! We must go at once! We must –”
“Without my son?” She was on her feet. “Jung – go and meet them. Bring them yourself – bring them, Jung, you understand?”
He saluted and strode out, and Yehonala turned to the palpitating An and said quietly: “Every shadow is not Prince Sang, Little An. Even sergeants fall off their horses sometimes. No, be silent. Whatever has happened, your bleatings will do nothing to help.” She adjusted her fur collar. “It’s cold. Lady Willow, have them put the screen across the window.”
As her woman pattered to obey, she paced the floor slowly, humming to herself. Outside the sound of Jung’s hoof-beats had faded, and we waited in the stillness, the air heavy with suspense. She may have found it cold, but I was sweating – whatever the possible danger, I reckoned Jung was a good judge, and he’d been a sight more worried than he let on. Little An was visibly bursting with silent terrors, in which Sang presumably had the lead role. Well, that was one I could do without … if he bowled in, I could see a pretty little scene ensuing when he recognised one of his star prisoners. Suppose I broke for it now … a bolt for the door, downstairs and into the garden … ? My skin roughened at the thought … the Mongol was at my elbow, stinking to high heaven, never taking his eyes off me –
“Ho-hum, cheer up, Little An,” says Yehonala, pausing in her walk, and prodding him playfully in the stomach. “You need some exercise, my lad. I know – where’s my cup and ball?”
It was lying on the table beside me, a priceless little toy of solid gold stem with a jade cup, and a gold chain attaching to the ball, which was a black pearl. She was expert in its use, but Little An was a hopeless duffer, and it was a standing joke with her to make him sweat away at it, fumbling and squealing, while her ladies went into fits.
I picked it up and handed it to her.
Very well, I was off-guard, preoccupied with the thought of bolting for safety, and my action was purely automatic – so much so, that she had actually taken it, with a little smile at me, and it was only the horrified realisation dawning on my own face that made her stare. Without that, my blunder might have passed unnoticed, or I might have bluffed it out … but now her eyes were blazing, Little An was shrieking – and I lunged headlong for the door, slipped on a rug on the polished floor, and came down with a crash that shook the building. The Mongol was on me before I could roll away, snarling like a bear, his great hands reaching for my throat; I thumped him once, and then like a clever lad he had his knife-point under my chin, climbing off me nimbly and bringing me up like a hooked fish, his free hand locked in my collar. He shot a glance at Yehonala, and asked for instructions.
“Kill him! Kill him!” squealed Little An. “He’s a spy – a barbarian spy!” A brilliant thought struck him. “Gods! He was Sang’s prisoner! He’s a spy of Sang’s! He –”
“Put him yonder,” says Yehonala, and the Mongol thrust me down in her chair, taking his stand behind it with his knife prodding the angle of my neck and shoulder – it beats handcuffs any day.
“Why?” yelps Little An. “Kill him now! Aiee, Orchid, why do you hesitate? He has heard all – he knows! He must die at once, before the Empress comes! Please, Orchid! Kill him – quickly!”
She came to stand in front of me, moving without haste, and save for the black ice of her eyes there wasn’t a trace of expression on the beautiful oval face framed in the fur collar – even in that hellish moment I couldn’t help thinking what an absolute peach she was. She flicked the golden toy in her hand, and the black pearl fell into the cup with a sharp click.
“You speak and understand Chinese?” It was a cold whisper, and since there was no point in denial, I nodded. Ignoring An, who was gibbering for my blood, she clicked the ball into its socket again, and said the last thing I’d have expected.
“You must have nerves like steel chains. Last night … you knew what I had told Little An, but you didn’t flinch by a hair’s breadth.”
“I’m a soldier, Empress of the Western Palace.” I was trying not to croak with terror, for I knew that if there was any hope at all, it rested on a cool, offhand bearing – try it next time a Mongol’s honing his knife on your jugular. “My name’s Colonel – Banner Chief – Flashman, and I’m chief of intelligence to Lord Elgin, whom you call the Big Barbarian –”
“He’s a spy!” shrieks An. “He admits it! Kill him! Give the order, Orchid Lady!”
“Why did you never speak before?” Her voice could never sound harsh, but it was fit to freeze your ears. “Why did you lie and deceive, by silence? Are you a spy?”
“Of course he is! He said so! He –”
“No, I was a prisoner of Prince Sang’s, taken by treachery. When you found me, I was gagged and unable to speak. By the time I was released, I had heard so much that to have admitted my knowledge would have meant certain death.” I frowned, gave my lip a gentle chew, and then looked her in the eye, speaking soft like a man striving valiantly to conceal his emotion – you know, a kind of ruptured Galahad. “I had no wish to die … not when I had found a new reason for living.”
For a second she didn’t take the drift – and then, d’you know, she absolutely blushed, and for the only time in our acquaintance she couldn’t meet my eye.
“He lies!” screamed Little An, God bless him. “Orchid, he has the tongue of a snake! The lying barbarian dog! Will you let him insult you, this beast? Kill him! Think what he knows! Think what he’s done!” Keep it up, Little An, thinks I, and you’ll talk me out of this yet. She met my eye again, cold as a clam.
“You think you will live now?” She flicked her cup and ball again – and missed.
“Why should you kill me … when I can serve you better alive? What I’ve overheard is in no way dangerous to you … or to your son; on the contrary.” I knew I mustn’t babble in panic, but maintain a calm, measured delivery, head up, jaw firm, eyes steady, bowels dissolving. “Tomorrow the British army will be in Pekin, seeking a treaty – not with Prince Sang, or Prince I, or Sushun, but as you said yourself, ‘with an Emperor acceptable to the barbarians’. Since it’s likely that the present Emperor will die, I can think of no more acceptable successor than your own son … guided by those who love him and seek the good of China. So I’ll tell Lord Elgin – and he’ll believe me. He will also see it for himself. And believe me, Empress – if you want a friend, you’ll find none better than the Big Barbarian. Except one.”
By jove, it was manly stuff – and true, for that matter. How she was taking it, I couldn’t tell, for her face was as mask-like as ever. Little An wasn’t buying; he’d picked his line, a singularly unattractive one, and was sticking to it. The Mongol I wasn’t sure about, but he wasn’t a voting shareholder. I sat bursting with concealed funk; should I say more … ? Yehonala flicked her cup again, and this time the ball snapped home with such finality that like a fool I came out with the first thing that entered my head.
“Of course, you’d want to stop the death warrants for Pa-hsia-li and the others. Lord Elgin would never forgive …” I stopped dead, appalled at the thought that I was voicing a threat – and an even more frightful thought occurred: suppose Parkes was dead already? Oh, Jesus what had I said? Yehonala’s reply left me in no doubt.
“He would never forgive Prince Sang, you mean.”
“Yes, yes!” cries An eagerly. “That is the way! Don’t listen to this liar, Orchid! Kill him and have done! He’s a spy, who’ll take every word to the Big Barbarian, lying and poisoning him against us! What do they care for China? They hate us, mutinous slaves!” He turned on her, hissing. “And he would defame you … oh, he won’t tell them just what he’s heard! He’ll invent foul slanders, abominations, mocking your honour –”
The temptation to bellow him down with indignant denials was strong, but I knew it wouldn’t do with this icy beauty’s eye on me, and her mouth tightening as she listened. I waited until he ran out of venom, and sighed.
“There speaks the jealous eunuch,” says I, and gave her just a hint of my wistful Flashy smile. “What can he know, Orchid Lady?”
Those were my bolts shot, diplomatic and romantic, and if they didn’t hold … I could try shooting feet first out of the chair and diving for the door, but I rather fancied the expert at my back would be ready for that. I waited, while she clicked her infernal toy again, and then she turned abruptly away, signing Little An to follow her out of earshot. At the end of the room her ladies stood agog, twittering at this sensation. While she and An conferred, my watchdog and I fell into conversation.
“Lift the point a little, soldier, will you?”
“Shut up, pig.”
Whether our friendship would have ripened, or what conclusion Yehonala and An would have reached, I can only guess, for it was at that moment that we were interrupted. One second all was still, and then there was a confused tumult from the garden, a babble of voices with a man shouting and women crying out closer at hand; distant yells and the sound of approaching hoof-beats; feet running in the house itself, and then the door was flung open and a tiny boy rushed into the room. He was the complete little mandarin, button hat and dragon robe and all, and at the sight of Yehonala he screamed with delight and raced towards her, arms out – only to stop abruptly and make a very slow, deep bow which was never completed, for she had swept him up, kissing him, crying out, and hugging him to her cheek. Then there were women in the room, three of them – a tall, bonny Manchoo girl with scared eyes, in a sable hat and cloak, and two other ladies, one of them squealing in alarm. From the fact that everyone in the room except Yehonala and my Mongol (trust him) dropped to their knees and knocked head, I knew this could only be the Empress Sakota, and the little boy, who was demanding shrilly to be let down so that he could show Yehonala his new watch with the little bell (the damnedest things stick in your memory) must be the heir to the throne, Tungchi.
They were all crying out at once, but before any sense could be made of it there was a yell and a clang of steel from the front of the house, a stentorian voice roaring to knock the bastard down but not to kill him, and noises to suggest that this was being done, not without difficulty. Then the Empress Sakota went into hysterics, covering her ears and shrilling wildly, her ladies stood appalled and helpless until Yehonala slapped her soundly, pushing her towards her own ladies who bore her in a screaming scrimmage to the end of the room. One of Sakota’s females swooned, the other was sobbing that the Prince General was here … and booted feet were striding up the passage, the half-open door was thrown back to the wall, and General Sang-kol-in-sen stood on the threshold.
It had happened more quickly than it takes to tell. I doubt if a minute had elapsed since the Mongol told me to shut up – and now for a second the room was still as death, except for the subdued sobbing of the Empress, and the little prince’s shrill voice:
“See – when I push it, it rings! It rings!” He pulled at Yehonala’s sleeve. “See, mama – it rings!”
She had set him down, but now she picked him up again and handed him to Little An, who had turned a pale green, but took the boy and was turning away at Yehonala’s quiet word when Sang roared “Wait!” and advanced a couple of paces into the room. He was in full fig of tin belly and mailed legs, with a fur cloak hanging from his shoulders, his dragon helmet under one arm and his shaven skull gleaming like a moon. Two wiry Tartar troopers were at his back, and I think it was the sight of them that made my Mongol withdraw his knife and step clear of my chair, his hand resting on his sabre-hilt. I sat still; I’m nobody’s fool.
Yehonala stood perfectly still in the centre of the room, facing Sang who had halted about ten feet away. His basilisk stare moved from Little An to her, and he gave her a curt nod.
“All harmony, Yi Concubine. I have –”
“All harmony, Lord Sang,” says she quietly, “but you forget her Imperial Highness is in the room.”
He grunted, and ducked his head towards the distant women. “Her Imperial Highness’s pardon. My business is with his Highness the Son of the Son of Heaven. His sacred presence is required in Pekin. The Prince I commands it.”
“His Highness is going to Jehol,” says she. “The Emperor commands it.”
Her tone rather than the words made his face crimson, and I saw the cords of his bull neck stiffen in anger, but instead of howling, as usual, he gave a contemptuous snort.
“You have a vermilion decree, swaying the wide world? No? Then we waste time. I’ll take his Highness. I have an escort.”
“Chief Eunuch,” says she, “take his Highness down to the court … at once.” She stood as stately calm as ever, but I caught the shake in her voice, and so did Sang, for he laughed again.
“Stand still, bladder! Don’t be a fool, Yi Concubine. Your Imperial Guards hero is down there with a broken head, and this fellow’ll take my orders!” He jerked a thumb at my Mongol, glanced in our direction, and noticed me for the first time. For a moment he frowned, and then his eyes dilated and his mouth gaped, which didn’t improve his appearance one bit. “That!” he bawled. “By death, what is it doing here?”
“He is a Banner Chief of the barbarian army!” she retorted. “A staff officer of the Big Barbarian himself –”
“I know what he is! I asked how he came here!” His glare fell on Little An, half-hidden behind Yehonala and clinging to the small prince as though he were a lifebelt. “You – capon! Is this some of your work? No, you scum, you never do anything but at her bidding!” He thrust out his jaw at Yehonala. “Well? What is an enemy prisoner doing in the Yi Concubine’s pavilion?”
“I am not answerable to you!” Her voice trembled with anger. “Now get out of my house! And knock your head as you go, you low-born Mongol!”
He actually fell back a pace, and then he seemed to swell, towering above her with both mailed hands raised, mouthing like a maniac. My guard took a pace forward, but Sang mastered himself, glaring from one to other of us, and his dirty mind must have come to the right conclusion, for suddenly he gave a snarling grin. “Ah! I begin to see! Well … it’s no matter. We’ll put the foreign filth where he belongs – in the Board of Punishments! And you,” he shouted at Yehonala, “can answer to the Supreme Tribunal … and bring your own silk cord with you, traitress!” He gestured to his men. “Take his Imperial Highness – and that fan-qui rubbish!”
One of the Tartars stepped towards Yehonala, none too brisk, and she turned and snatched the boy from Little An, pulling him close to her side. She was quivering like a deer, but her eyes were blazing.
“Dare! Dare to touch him, you stable scum, and you’ll die for it! For treason and sacrilege! The Emperor will –”
“On the word of a faithless whore?” jeers Sang, and thrust the Tartar brutally forward. “Fetch him, fool!”
The Tartar took another step, Little An screamed and blundered bravely forward, arms windmilling, to bar his way, and Yehonala swung the prince up in her arms, turned to run in sudden panic, realised it was hopeless, and turned again, helpless. The Tartar flung Little An aside, the ladies behind wailed in terror, and Yehonala flung out a hand to ward off the Tartar, crying out.
“Help me! Stop them! Help me!” And, by God, she was calling to me.
Well, you know what follows when a beautiful young woman, threatened by brutal enemies, turns to me in a frenzy of entreaty, hand outstretched and eyes imploring; if she’s lucky I may roar for the bobbies as I slide over the sill. But this was different, for while they’d been trading insults I’d been calculating like sin, and I knew how it must be, even before she hollered for help – if Sang prevailed, I was dead meat; if I turned up trumps, Yehonala would see me right; if Sang thought he could rule out the Mongol, he was wrong, for the brute was not only an Imperial Guardsman worth two Tartars any day, he had a mishandled chief to avenge, and the sight of Yehonala threatened had been causing him to bristle like a chivalrous gorilla. It was his size that determined me, and the fact that there wasn’t a sill to slide over, anyway. It was now or never: I leaped from my chair, crimson with fear, and roared:
“Sang-kol-in-sen! That lady and her child are under the protection of Her Majesty’s Government! Molest them at your peril! I speak for Lord Elgin and the British Army, so … so back off, d’you see?” And for good measure I added: “You dirty dog, you!”
It stopped ’em dead in sheer amazement, Dick Dauntless facing the stricken heathen, and I wished Elspeth could have seen me just then – or perhaps, considering what Yehonala looked like, better not. There was a breathless pause, and then Sang went literally mad with rage, howling and lugging out his sword. I yelped and sprang away, turning for the sabre which I knew was on the wall, since Yehonala had indicated it to An last night – and the damned thing wasn’t there! Sang’s blade whirled in a glittering arc, and I hurled myself aside, bellowing, as it shattered a table in my rear. There was the sabre, three yards along – I leaped and snatched it from the wall, whirling to meet another furious cut, roaring to the Mongol to get on parade, and breaking ground as Sang came after me, frothing like a pi-dog. On clear floor I fell on guard, parrying two cuts to take his measure, and my heart leaped as I realised I’d been right in one vital hope – he couldn’t use a sabre to save himself. He was a blind, furious lasher, so I exposed my flank, took the cut on the forte, waited his lurching recovery, and ran him through the left arm. (I ain’t Guillaume Danet, you understand, but Sang’s swordplay would have broken the troop-sergeant’s heart.)
I needn’t have fretted about the Mongol. One Tartar was down, with his guts on the rug, and the other was in desperate retreat, with my lad coming in foot and hand. I had a brief glimpse of the room – wailing women stampeding for the archway passage leading to the court; Little An carrying the prince and herding them like a fat collie; Yehonala standing half-way, watching us, clutching her fur to her neck – and then Sang was on me again, spraying gore and hewing like a woodman; oh, he was game. Right, you swine, thinks I, this’ll read well in the Morning Post, and I went in to kill him. I’d have done it, too, but the cowardly bastard got behind a table, roaring for help; Yehonala suddenly cried out, and I stole a glance behind – there were fur caps and swords in the doorway, with the Mongol charging them. More of Sang’s riders, three at the least, but the Mongol was holding them in the narrow entrance; useful chap he was.
“Die hard, Attila!” I roared to encourage him, took a last cut at Sang, and turned to race along the room. Yehonala was at the archway, glancing back anxiously while Little An, who seemed to have got shot of the prince to one of the women, pleaded with her to make haste. I seconded that as I ran, for I wanted no one hindering my line of retreat: “Get out, woman! Run for it! We’ll stand ’em off!” By which I meant that the Mongol would, but just as I came level with him, moving smoothly, the mob in the doorway forced him back, and I must turn to cover his flank.
He’d done for the original two, but had taken a couple of cuts in the process, one an ugly gash on the face that was running like a tap. There were four new swords against us, and as the Mongol reeled I could only ply the Maltese Cross for my very life (that’s the Afghan’s last resort, an up-down-across pattern that no opponent can get by until you fall down exhausted, which happens after about ten seconds, in my condition). Then he recovered, and we retreated shoulder to shoulder for the arch, while Sang came steaming up, with shouts and great action, damning ’em for sluggards but keeping his distance.
That Mongol was a complete hand. I’ve never seen a faster big man, and with his tremendous reach he could have given my old chum de Gautet a few minutes’ trouble. He fought left-handed, with a short sword in his right, and didn’t mind at all taking a cut in a good cause; he stopped one with his bare shoulder, grunted, and chopped like lightning – and there was a head trundling away across the polished floor while the Mongol bayed triumphantly, and the three other Tartars checked aghast and reviewed the position, with Sang going demented.
We were under the arch and into the passage, and since there was room for only one I considerately went first, while Genghiz turned and dared the foemen to come on, clashing his hilts against his mailed chest and howling with laughter. He seemed in such spirits that I left him to it, flying along the passage and round the corner, and not so much as a mouse-hole to hide in, so I must career down the stairs and into the starlit dark of the walled court.
Two horse-palkis were clattering out and away along an avenue of high impenetrable hedges; one remained, and Yehonala was drawing aside its curtain, preparing to climb in but looking back anxiously – for me, I like to think, for she gave a little cry as I appeared. Little An was trying to climb aboard the lead horse and making sad work of it, squealing oaths and slipping under its neck; I heaved him up bodily – it was like handling a mattress full of blancmange – and slapped the beast with the flat of my sabre. It started forward, and as the palki came by Yehonala had the curtain raised; she said nothing, but stretched out her hand; I caught it for a second, and she smiled; then the palki was past, and I got a foot on the shaft and swung aboard the rear horse and we were away, the palki swaying like a hammock between the two beasts. As we lumbered down the avenue, I looked back; the court was empty under the stars, which suggested that my Mongol was still at profitable labour – and if you cry out on me for a deserter, so I am, and you can spare your sympathy for his opponents.
The avenue ran straight for half a mile, and we picked up a good pace. With the panic of action over I was suddenly reeling tired, and trembling at the thought of the risks I’d run; the temptation to sink forward on the horse’s mane, sobbing with relief, mastered me for a moment, and then I thought, sit up, you fool, you’re still in the wood. The avenue was curving now, and the hedge had thinned to a border of bushes; two furlongs ahead there were lanterns burning, and the helmets of horsemen – Jung Lu’s troop waiting on the Jehol road. Time to go, so I swung my leg over, gripped my sabre, and hopped down. The palki faded into the night, there were faint shouts from the gate, and the lanterns were moving up the avenue to meet it.40
Why did I slip my cable when I’d just won the gratitude of a powerful and beautiful woman who was half-crazy about me to start with? Well, I’ll tell you: gratitude’s a funny thing; do a favour, and often as not you’ve made an enemy, or at best a grudging friend. Folk hate to feel obliged. And in Yehonala’s case, how long would it have been before she remembered how much dangerous knowledge I had of her and her ambitions, and the debt had dwindled into insignificance, with Little An putting in his twopenn’orth of hate?
Perhaps I misjudge her; perhaps she could feel gratitude with the same intensity she gave to her vice, but I doubt it. Gratitude feeds best on love, and the only love she had for me was an insatiable appetite for jolly roger. I, on the other hand, was perfectly ready for a change from Chink-meat – and yet, even now I can feel a stopping of the heart when I see in memory that lovely pale oval mask suspended in the blackness of the palki, smiling at me, and the slim fingers brushing for a moment across mine. Oh, she had a magic, and it’s with me still; when I saw her again, forty years later, I was gulping like a boy. That was during the Boxer nonsense, when she was “Old Buddha”, still with China helpless in those tiny silver talons. She’d hardly changed – a little plumper in the face, more heavily-painted, but the eye was as bright as a girl’s, and the voice – when I heard those soft, singing tones the years fell away, and I was in the Summer Palace, on a sunlit lawn, watching that perfect profile against the dark leaves, listening to the bells across the lake … She didn’t recognise the big, silver-whiskered grog-faced ruffian among the diplomatic riff-raff, and I didn’t make myself known. We spoke for only a moment; I remember she talked of Western dancing as two people holding hands and jumping all over the room, and then she gave a little sigh and said: “We should have thought it a very … tame amusement, in my young day …” I wonder if she did recognise me?
Anyway, wild horses wouldn’t have got me to Jehol; my one thought was the army and safety, so I put the Pole Star just abaft my left shoulder and set off on my last quiet stroll through the Summer Palace; I was close by the boundary, well clear of Sang and his scoundrels – supposing the Mongol hadn’t slaughtered them all, with luck – and knew that an hour’s easy march should bring me in reach of the Pekin road; there I’d take stock and cast about for our fellows. Mind you, looking back, I was uncommon reckless, for heaven knew what Imps might be loose about the night; but it seemed so quiet and serene under the starlight, with the breeze soft in the branches and long cypress shadows reaching across the lawns, the distant glimmer of a lake, the twinkle of light from a pavilion half-hidden in the groves … I remember thinking as I walked, you’ll never find such peace again; you’ll forget the blood and terror in which you came to it and came away, and remember only the starlit garden … her place … and call it heaven. As I moved silently up the last slope, I looked back, and there it lay, fairyland on earth, the last Elysium, stretching away in the dawn dark, seen through the misty vision of her face.
It struck me that there might be some good portable loot in the Ewen-ming-ewen, and never a better chance, with the Empress’s suite cleared out in haste, and everyone else either fled or occupied with events around Pekin; it wasn’t much out of my way, so I slipped swiftly through the trees until I saw the great gold Hall of Audience ahead, and scouted through the bushes for a look-see. And d’you know what – the plundering Froggy bastards had got there first! I heard their racket ahead and couldn’t make out who it might be, for our folk couldn’t be so close, surely … then I tripped over a dead eunuch, and saw there were about a dozen of ’em, still figures sprawled on the sward towards the great gate; one poor fat sod was clutching a huge ornamental snickersnee of carved ivory, and another had a little lady’s bow and golden arrows. And they’d tried to defend their treasure house against European infantry …41
The hall entrance was lit by flickering lanterns, and people were hurrying in and out; there were marching feet down by the gate, and then I heard: “Halte! Sac a terre!” and I whooped for joy and ran across the lawn shouting.
There was a young lieutenant posting pickets around the building, and when I’d made myself known he was in a rare frenzy, and I must see his captain, for I was the first prisoner they’d seen, death of his life, and where were the others, I’Abbé and M. Gommelle, and see, mon capitaine, un colonel Anglais, quel phénomène, avec un glaive et les pantalons Chines. I answered his questions as best I could, and learned that they were the advance guard of a French regiment sent to secure the northern approach to the city – and what was this place? Le Palais Estival, le residence impérial, ma foi! Ici, Corporal Fromage, and listen to this! Pardon? Oh, yes, there were British cavalry about somewhere, but in the dark, who knew? Now, if I would excuse him …
I sat on a rocket-box, dog tired, eating bread and issue wine, watching an endless stream of chattering, yelling Frog infantry swarming out of the Hall of Audience, weighed down with bolts of silk, bundles of shimmering dragon robes, jade vases, clocks, jewelled watches, pictures, everything they could lay hands on. Some were wearing women’s dresses and hats; I remember one roaring bearded sergeant, with a magnificent cloth of gold gown kilted up above his red breeches, dancing a can-can as his mates yelled and clapped; another was skimming plumed picture hats up in the air like a juggler’s plates; my little lieutenant had a cashmere shawl embroidered with tiny gems about his shoulders, and the major was casting a connoisseur’s eye over a fine gilt-framed painting and exclaiming that it was a Petitot, as ever was. There were enormous piles of loot growing in the court-yard – silks here, clocks there, paintings over yonder, vases farther on … very orderly in their plundering were our Gallic allies, but what would you? When grandpapa has followed Napoleon, you know how such things should be done, so the French army loot by numbers, with a shrewd eye to quality, while the indiscriminate British will lift (or smash) anything that comes in their way, just for the fun of it.
It was sunrise, and the Frogs were exclaiming over the sight of the Hall of Audience gleaming in the first rays, shading their eyes and running off for a better look, when I managed to collar a mule and set off at a nice amble down the Pekin road. The French were camped everywhere, but only a mile along I struck a troop of Dragoons boiling their dixies by the roadside. No, we weren’t in Pekin yet, and Grant intended to force a capitulation by wheeling up his guns to the Anting Gate and putting his finger on the trigger, so to speak; so the campaign was over. I commandeered a horse, and a few minutes later was trotting in to the grounds of a fine temple where advance head-quarters had been set up, and the first thing I saw was Elgin still in his night-shirt, the rising sun gilding his pate, munching a bun and waving a bottle of beer at a big map on an easel, with Hope Grant and the staff ringed round him.
There was a tremendous yell when I hove in view, and a tumult of questions as I slid from the saddle, and fellows slapping me on the back and shouting: “The prisoners are safe!” and hurrahing, and Elgin came bustling to shake my hand, crying:
“Flashman, my dear chap! We’d given you up for dead! Thank God you’re safe! My dear fellow, wherever have you been? This is capital! My boy, are you hurt? Have those villains ill-used you?”
I couldn’t answer, because all of a sudden I felt very weak and wanted to blub. I think it was the kind words – the first I’d heard in ever so long, although it was barely three weeks – and the English voices and everyone looking so cheery and glad to see me, and the anxious glower on Elgin’s bulldog face at the thought that I’d been mistreated, and just the knowledge that I was home. Then someone whistled, exclaiming, and they were all staring at the sabre which I’d hung from my saddle, dried blood all over the blade – Sang’s blood, and that struck me as ever so funny, for some reason, and I’d have laughed if I’d had the energy. But I just stood mum and choking while they cried out and shouted questions and rejoiced, until Hope Grant shouldered them all aside, pretty rough, even Elgin, and pushed me down on to a stool, and put a cup of tea in my hand, and stood with his hand round my shoulders, not saying a word. Then I blubbed.
a See Appendix II.