It burned for almost a week, with a vast pillar of smoke a mile high in the windless air, like some great brooding genie from a bottle, spreading his pall across the countryside; Pekin was a city in twilight, its people awestricken to silence. To them it was incredible, yet there it was, and they saw it, and believed at last. If we hadn’t burned it, but had merely occupied Pekin for a season and gone away again, I don’t doubt that in no time the Manchoo propagandists would have convinced the population that we’d never been there at all. But with the Summer Palace in flames they couldn’t doubt the truth – the barbarians had won, the Son of Heaven had been humbled to the dust, and there was the funeral pyre to prove it.
As some callous scoundrel remarked – and it may have been me, by the sound of it – at least The Times couldn’t complain that Elgin hadn’t avenged their correspondent properly; poor young Bowlby having been one of the Emperor’s victims, you see. That smoke spread, metaphorically, all over the world, and some called Elgin a Visigoth, and others said he’d done the right thing, but one of the warmest debates was over exactly what he had done. Most folk still believe that one great palace building was burned; in fact, there were more than two hundred destroyed, to my knowledge, with most of their contents and great areas of woodland and garden. Some, like Loch, have softened it as best they can by claiming that many buildings and much treasure escaped, that some palaces were only half-burned(!), that few manuscripts were lost, and that the damage was less than it looked. The plain truth is that the great Summer Palace, eight miles by ten, was a charred ruin, and if Lloyds had been faced with the bill they’d have shut up shop and fled the country.
The lesson was driven home with the usual Horse Guards pomp when the convention was signed a few days later, Kung having had to agree to everything we demanded, including £100,000 for the families of our dead. Elgin, looking like Pickwick strayed into an Aladdin pantomime, was toted through the streets of Pekin in an enormous palanquin by liveried Chinese, with our troops lining the route for three miles to the Hall of Ceremonies, the band playing the National Anthem, an escort of infantry and cavalry hundreds strong, and the senior men mounted in full fig, wearing that curious ceremonial expression of solemn intensity, as though they were trying not to fart. I can’t be doing with Hyde Park soldiering; it looks so dam’ ridiculous, when anyone can see with half an eye that it costs more time and trouble and expense than fighting a war, and the jacks-in-office and hangers-on who take part plainly think it’s a whole heap more important. I’d abolish the Tin Bellies and Trooping the Colour, if I had my way. But that’s by the by; the public love it, and there’s no question it awed the Chinese; they gazed at Elgin in stricken silence, and knocked head as he went by.
The treaty was signed with tremendous ceremony, before a great concourse of mandarins in dragon robes, and ourselves in dress uniforms, Elgin looking damned disinheriting and poor little Prince Kung plainly scared out of his wits by Beato’s camera, which he seemed to think was some kind of gun. (The picture never came out, either.) It was infernally dull and went on for hours, both sides loathing each other with icy politeness, and the only possibility of fun was when Parkes, that imperturbable diplomat, spotted the chap who’d pulled his hair, standing among the Chinese dignitaries, and I believe would have gone for him then and there, if Loch, the spoilsport, hadn’t restrained him.45 (Parkes got his revenge, though; he had Prince I turned out of his splendid palace, and bagged it for the new British Embassy.)
And then, quite suddenly, it was all over. Elgin had his piece of paper, with red seals and yellow ribbon; China and Britain were sworn to eternal friendship; our traders were free to deluge the market with pulse, grain, sulphur, salt-petre, cash, opium (ha-ha!), brimstone, and even spelter; there were a few hundred new graves along the Peiho (Moyes at Tang-ku and Nolan at Pah-li-chao among them); the Summer Palace was a smoking ruin; in Jehol a dainty silver finger-nail was poised to pin the Chinese Empire; and I was going down-river on Coromandel, with Elgin’s kindly note of appreciation in my pocket, a black jade chess set in my valise, and a few memories in mind.
So often it’s like that, when the most vivid chapters end; the storm of war and action hurtles you along in blood and thunder, seeking vainly for a hold to cling to, and then the wind drops, and in a moment you’re at peace and dog-tired, with your back to a gun-wheel at Gwalior, or closing your eyes in a corner seat of the Deadwood Stage, or drinking tea contentedly with an old Kirghiz bandit in a serai on the Golden Road, or sitting alone with the President of the United States at the end of a great war, listening to him softly whistling “Dixie”.
So it was now – for that’s my China story done, save for one curious little postscript – and I could loaf at the rail, looking forward to a tranquil voyage home to Elspeth and a gentleman’s life, far away from mist and mud and rice-paddy and dry-dung smells and Tiger soldiers and silk banners and nightmare Bannermen and belching ornamental cannon and crazy Taipings and even crazier Yankees and fire-crackers and yellow faces … no, I wouldn’t even miss the gigantic bandit women and jolly Hong Kong boaters and beauteous dragon queens … not too much, anyway.
Possibly those three were in my mind, though, a few weeks later, as I sat in Dutranquoy’s bar in Singapore, where the mail had dropped me, idly wondering how I’d kill the fortnight before the P. & O. Cape ship sailed for Home – for I was shot if I was going by that infernal Suez route. At any rate, something awoke a memory of the voluptuous Madam Sabba, with whom I’d wrestled so enjoyably on my last visit there, until she’d spoiled sport by whistling up the hatchet-men – heavens, that had been more than fifteen years ago. Still, I doubted if Singapore had gone Baptist in the meantime, so I took a palki across the river and up through Chinatown to the pleasant residential area which I remembered, where the big houses stood back in their gardens, with paper lanterns glimmering on the dark drives and burly Sikh porters bowing at the front door. Very genteel resorts they were; no trollops on view or anything of that sort; you had a capital dinner and caught the waiter’s eye, and he drummed up the flashtail discreetly.
I demanded to be taken to the best place, and it looked A1, with a big dimly-lit club dining-room where silent bearers waited on the tables, and two smart hostesses went the rounds to see that all was in order. One of them was a stately ivory who might have been Sabba’s daughter; I considered her carefully as I ate my duck curry with a bottle of bubbly, but then I noticed the other one, at the far end of the room, and changed my mind. She was white and fair and excellently set up, and I felt an almighty urge to try some civilised goods for a change; I heard her soft laughter as she paused by a table where half-a-dozen planters were eating; then she passed on to a solitary diner, a blond-bearded young stalwart in good linen with a clipper-captain look to him, and I wondered if he was on the same lay as myself, for she stood in talk for quite five minutes, while I consumed a jealous soufflé. But then she turned away and swayed to my corner, smiling graciously and asking if everything was to my satisfaction.
“It will be directly,” says I, rising gallantly, “if you’ll condescend to join me in a bottle of fizz.” I was setting a chair when I heard her gasp; she was staring as though I were Marley’s ghost. Hold on, thinks I, my new whiskers are grown enough to be presentable, surely – and then I almost dropped the chair, for it was Phoebe Carpenter, pillar of the Church and wholesaler of firearms to the Taiping rebels.
“Colonel Flashman!” cries she. “Oh, dear!”
“Mrs Carpenter!” cries I. “Good God!”
She swayed, eyes closed, and sat down abruptly, gulping and staring at me wide-eyed as I resumed my seat. “Oh, what a start you gave me!”
“That’s what I said, up the Pearl River,” says I. “Well, well, I never! Here, take a glass … and do tell me how the Reverend Josiah is keeping. Missionary society doing well, is it?”
“Oh, dear!” she whispers, trembling violently, which improved proved an already delightful appearance. I hadn’t known her because the Phoebe I remembered had borne her beauty in matronly modesty, innocent of rouge and fairly swathed in muslin; this was a most artistic translation, red-lipped and polished, with her gold ringlets piled behind her head and her udders threatening to leap with agitation from a low-cut gown of black satin which I doubted had come from the last sale of work. She drank, her teeth chattering.
“What must you think?” says she, speaking low, and taking a quick slant to see that no one was listening.
“Well,” says I cheerily, “I think you’re wanted in Hong Kong, for gun-running, which should get you about five years if anyone were inconsiderate enough to mention it to the Singapore traps. I also think that would be a crying shame –”
“You wouldn’t betray me?” she whimpers faintly.
“You betrayed me, dear Phoebe,” says I gently, and laid my hand on hers. “But of course I wouldn’t –”
“You might!” says she, starting to weep.
“Nonsense, child! Why ever on earth should I?”
“For … for … re-revenge!” She stared piteously, like a blue-eyed fawn, her bosom heaving. “I … we … deceived you most shamefully! Oh, dear, what am I to do?”
“Have some bubbly,” says I soothingly, “and rest assured I have no thoughts of revenge. Compensation, perhaps …”
“Comp-compensation?” She blinked miserably. “But I have no substance … I couldn’t afford …”
“My dear Mrs Carpenter,” says I, squeezing her hand, “you have absolutely capital substance, and you know perfectly well I don’t mean money. Now … I’m sure Josiah has told you all about Susannah and the Elders. Well, I’m not feeling exactly elderly, but … oh, Susannah!” I beamed at her, and she blinked again, dabbed her nose and looked at me thoughtfully, still heaving a bit but settling down and accepting another ration of fizz.
“I’m by no means sure that they would send me to prison!” says she, unexpectedly, pouting. “After all, it was a very good cause!”
“It was a dam’ bad cause,” says I, “and if you think they won’t shove you in clink, just ask dear Josiah.”
“I can’t! He has abandoned me!”
“You don’t mean it!” I was astonished. “He must be mad. You mean he just up and left you? Here?”
“Can you suppose I would accept employment in a restaurant if I were still a clergyman’s wife? Well, I am still his wife,” she admitted, taking another sip, “but he has deserted me and gone to Sumatra.”
“Has he, though? Missionary work or piracy? Well, that’s bad luck to be sure. But you’ll soon get another chap, you know, with your looks,” I reassured her. “Well, take tonight, for example. Why, before I even recognised you, I was most entirely fetched –”
“Oh, say you will not inform on me!” She leaned forward, all entreaty. “You see, I have a most fortunate situation here, and am in hope to save sufficient to go back to … to England … to Middle Wallop and my dear parents … at the rectory …”
“I knew it must be a rectory. Middle Wallop, eh?”
“When I think of it,” says she, biting her lip, “compared to …” She gestured at the room pathetically.
“… compared to beating copra in the women’s compound with all those smelly Chinese sluts? Absolutely. Well, now, Phoebe, tempus is fugiting – when does your shop shut, and where shall we … ah … ?”
“We close in an hour. I live in the house,” says she, looking at the table, and shot me a reproachful pout – my, she was a little stunner. “You do very wrong to compel me. If you were a gentleman …”
“I’d shop you like a worthy citizen. If you were a lady, you wouldn’t hocus fellows into running guns. So we’re well suited – and I ain’t compelling you one bit; you’re all for it.” I gave her a wink and a squeeze. “Now, then, where can I spend the next hour? Got a billiard table, have you? Capital. Just pass me the word when you’ve got the dishes washed – oh, and see we have a couple of bottles, iced, upstairs, will you? Come on, goose – we’ll have the jolliest time, you know!”
She gave her head a little toss, going pink, and glanced at me slantendicular. “And you promise faithfully not to tell … anything? Oh, if only I could be sure!”
“Well, you can’t. Oh, come … why should I peach on a little darling like you, eh?” As we stood up, close together, I squeezed the satin unseen, and her mouth opened on a little gasp. “See? Two hours from now, you won’t care.”
I ambled down to the empty billiard room, in prime fettle, calling “Kya-hai!” and ordering up another bottle of bubbly. I tickled the pills until it arrived, and then wandered, glass in hand, to the verandah to look out into the tropic dark; it had started to rain with great force, as it does in Singapore, straight down in stair-rods, battering the leaves and gurgling in the monsoon ditch, bringing that heavy, earthy smell that is the East. I stood reflecting in great content: homeward bound, champagne, good Burma cheroot, and lissom little Phoebe under starter’s orders. What more could a happy warrior ask? After the second glass I tried a few combination shots, but my eye wasn’t in any longer, and after a while I left off, yawning and wishing impatiently that Phoebe would hurry the mateys along, beginning to feel sleepy as well as monstrous randy.
The door opened abruptly and a chap stuck his head in, rain glistening on his hat and cape. He gave me a cheery nod.
“Evenin’, sport. Seen Joss about, have you?”
“Joss?”
“The guv’nor. You know, Carpenter. Or maybe you don’t know. Ne’er mind, I daresay he’s upstairs.” He was with-drawing.
“Hold on! D’you mean … the Rev. Josiah Carpenter?”
“The one and only,” says he, grinning. “Our esteemed proprietor.”
I gaped at him. “Proprietor? You mean he owns this place? He’s not … in Sumatra?”
“Well, he wasn’t this afternoon. I say, are you all right?”
“But Mrs Carpenter distinctly … told me …”
“Oh, she’s about, is she? Good, I’ll see her. Chin-chin.”
The door slammed, leaving me standing bewildered – and angry. What was the little bitch playing at? She’d said … hold on … she had said … I turned sharply at a step on the verandah, lurching heavily against the table and catching hold to steady myself.
The big blond-bearded chap who’d been in the restaurant was standing in the open screen; he was wearing a pilot-cap now, and there seemed to be another fellow in a sou’wester, just behind him in the shadows … why was I so dizzy all of a sudden?
“Hollo,” says the blond chap, and his glance went to the bottle and glass on the side-table. He grinned at me. “Enjoying your drink?”
[With words apparently failing their
author for once, the eighth packet
of the Flashman Papers ends here.]