The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  51. It was a strange chance that brought two of America’s great military heroes together at a time when both were still virtually unknown. Robert Edward Lee (1807–70), a lieutenant-colonel of cavalry with a sound but unremarkable record as a military engineer and superintendent of West Point Military Academy, happened to be in Washington on leave from Texas in October, 1859; James Ewell Brown Stuart (1833–64), a subaltern who had invented a patent device for attaching a sabre to a belt, was waiting in the hope of showing it to the Secretary for War when news came of the Harper’s Ferry crisis and he was abruptly despatched to summon Lee to the White House. When Lee was sent to deal with Brown’s raid, Stuart accompanied him as aide – a curious beginning to a famous association. Only a few years later, Lee, as commander-in-chief of the Confederate armies, was being hailed by many as the greatest captain since Wellington, a reputation which his surrender to Grant at Appomattox did nothing to diminish, and “Jeb” Stuart’s skill and daring had made him the outstanding cavalry general of the U.S. Civil War; Lee called him “the eyes of the army”. (See Captain Robert E. Lee, Recollections and Letters of General Robert E. Lee, 1904, and works cited in Note 57.)

  Flashman, who served on both sides in the Civil War, as a Confederate staff colonel and as a major in the Union forces, with whom he won the Congressional Medal of Honor (mysteries which will no doubt be explained when the relevant packet of is Papers comes to light), seems to have known both men well. That he rode with Stuart is already established (see his interview with President Grant in Flashman and the Redskins). He refers to Lee as “my old chief” in the present volume, and in an earlier one (Flashman) recalls a conversation which suggests that they were more than official acquaintances.

  52. The young woman who intervened on Thompson’s behalf was Miss Christina Fouke (not “Foulkes”), sister of the Wager House’s proprietor. In a letter to the St Louis Republican she explained that she wanted to see the law take its course, and to prevent any outrage in the hotel.

  53. Although Flashman did not know it, his order for breakfasts for the raiders and hostages had been filled by the hotel, not without reluctance. The dishes were carried to the armoury by waiters, but Brown, Washington, and another hostage ate nothing, apparently suspecting that the food might have been poisoned.

  54. In fact there were eleven hostages in the engine-house, chosen by Brown as being the most important of the thirty-odd whom he had taken prisoner. The remainder were left in the watch-room, which was attached to the engine-house but had no communicating door.

  55. In view of Brown’s religious upbringing, it is not surprising that he was familiar with the famous last words of Bishop Hugh Latimer, burned at the stake in 1555: “Be of good comfort, Master Ridley, and play the man. We shall this day light such a candle by God’s grace in England as shall never be put out.”

  56. Flashman’s memory must be playing him false here. There may have been a lantern in the engine-house during the parley with Captain Sinn, but Brown would hardly have left it burning afterwards to assist the besieging marksmen. Whatever illumination there was probably came from the engine-house stove.

  57. J. E. B. Stuart described the parley at the engine-house door in a letter to his mother, and seems to make it clear that this was his only interview with Brown. However, Captain Dangerfield, clerk of the armoury, who was one of the hostages in the engine-house, and gave a detailed account of his experiences to the Century Magazine, states that Stuart made an earlier visit to the engine-house during the night with a demand for surrender, and said that he would return at dawn for a reply. Dangerfield’s recollections are so convincing – he talked at length with Brown during the night, and gives a vivid description of the fighting and final storming of the engine-house – that it is difficult to know what to make of this discrepancy, unless Dangerfield confused Stuart with Captain Sinn, who as we know called on Brown to surrender during the night. (Sanborn; H. B. McClellan, Life and Campaigns of J. E. B. Stuart, 1885; John W. Thomason, Jeb Stuart, 1930.)

  58. Messervy was right. There was some trade in Harper’s Ferry souvenirs, including fakes of the pikes with which Brown had intended to arm the slaves.

  59. “There have been few more dramatic scenes in American history,” wrote O. G. Villard of the extraordinary interview with John Brown which took place only a few hours after his capture. It was recorded by a reporter from the New York Herald, and the essentials are given in Sanborn. What must strike anyone who reads it is Brown’s complete composure and alertness throughout; considering his wounded condition, it was a remarkable performance. Once or twice he gives a sharp retort to an aggressive question, but for the rest he is unfailingly courteous, measured, and even good-humoured. The impression he made on his interrogators was profound, and the report of Governor Wise of Virginia is particularly significant in view of the controversy about Brown’s sanity:

  They are mistaken who take Brown to be a madman. He is a bundle of the best nerves I ever saw … a man of clear head, of courage, fortitude and simple ingenuousness. He is cool, collected, and indomitable.

  Flashman’s brief version of the interview corresponds with the Herald report, but he differs on small points from Harper’s Weekly, which says that Brown’s hair “was a mass of clotted gore” and that “his speech was frequently interrupted by deep groans, reminding me of the agonised growl of a ferocious beast.”

  60. Because the Marines had been ordered to wear full dress, Lieutenant Green was carrying only a light ceremonial sword. This almost certainly prevented his killing Brown in the engine-house.

  61. Political reaction to the raid was predictable. Stephen Douglas spoke for the Democrats when he called it the inevitable result of Republican policy. The Republican leaders denounced it and disclaimed all responsibility, but could not deny their sympathy with Brown’s cause, if not with his methods. Lincoln thought it right that he should hang “even though he agreed with us in thinking slavery wrong. That cannot excuse violence, bloodshed and treason.” Seward condemned the raid as a criminal act of sedition and treason, but could pity the raiders “because they acted under delirium”. Neither statement did anything to mollify a South furious at the discovery that wealthy and influential Northerners like the Secret Six and others had been Brown’s paymasters. For their part, three of the Six took prompt evasive action: Sanborn decamped to Canada, but soon returned and was briefly arrested; Dr Howe and George Stearns followed him and stayed away until after Brown’s execution. Of the other three, Theodore Parker was dying in Europe; Thomas Higginson, the most militant of the Six, stayed put and tried, with Sanborn, to organise Brown’s escape (see Note 62); Gerrit Smith went temporarily mad and spent six weeks in an asylum. Of all Brown’s supporters, Frederick Douglass had most to fear; within hours of the raid a warrant was out for his arrest on charges of murder, treason, and inciting slave revolt, and he fled to Canada on the day after the raid, and subsequently to Britain.

  62. Plotting to rescue Brown began within a few days of his capture. A group who included two of the Six, Higginson and Sanborn, commissioned one of Brown’s defence counsel to investigate the possibility of an escape, but Brown himself refused to be party to any such attempt. Allan Pinkerton may also have considered the possibility of a jail-break; his biographer quotes him as follows: “Had it not been for the excessive watchfulness [of Brown’s captors] … the pages of American history would never have been stained with the record of his execution.”

  Copyright

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  Harper

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  First published in Great Britain by Harvill 1994

  Copyright © George
MacDonald Fraser 1994

  George MacDonald Fraser asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

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  Source ISBN: 9780007217205

  Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2011 ISBN: 9780007325696

  Version 2013–09–17

  FLASHMAN AND THE DRAGON

  from The Flashman Papers, 1860

  Edited and Arranged by

  GEORGE MACDONALD FRASER

  Dedication

  For Ka’t-lin

  a memento of the Pearl River

  and Tuah Bee

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Explanatory Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Appendix I: The Taiping Rebellion

  Appendix II: The Orchid

  Appendix III: The Doctor of Letters of the Hanlin Academy

  Glossary

  Notes

  Copyright

  Explanatory Note

  It is now twenty years since the Flashman Papers, the memoirs of the notorious Rugby School bully who became a Victorian hero, were found in a Leicestershire saleroom. Of the dozen or so packets of manuscript, seven have so far been published in book form; they have covered four military campaigns (the First Afghan War, Crimea, Indian Mutiny, and Sioux War of 1879), and five episodes of less formal and generally reluctant active service – pirate-hunting with Brooke of Sarawak; as military adviser to Queen Ranavalona of Madagascar; as conspirator with Bismarck in the Schleswig-Holstein affair; in the African slave trade and Underground Railroad; and on the American frontier during the Gold Rush. This eighth volume sees him returning to military service in the Taiping Rebellion and Pekin Expedition of 1860.

  Not the least interesting feature of Flashman’s recollections, to students of history, is the light they cast on the early years of many famous Victorians, who are seen through the unsparing eyes of one who, while a self-confessed coward, libertine, and scoundrel, was nevertheless a scrupulous reporter. Thus, we have seen him fleeing the murderous wrath of the young politician Bismarck, viewing Congressman Lincoln with wary respect, teaching the infant Crazy Horse how to wink, admiring Lola Montez the aspiring novelty dancer, and toadying to the young Queen Victoria herself. In China he encounters two of the great mercenary captains, a future empress, the founding fathers of the modern British Army and Navy, and those strange, forgotten peasants who changed the face of a great empire. It may be that he provides some new historical insights, while again demonstrating the lengths to which perfidy, impudence, immorality, and poltroonery may be stretched in the enforced pursuit of fame, riches, and above all, survival.

  In accordance with the wishes of Mr Paget Morrison, owner of the Flashman manuscripts, I have confined my editing to correcting the old soldier’s spelling, checking the accuracy of the narrative (which is exact where matters of verifiable historical fact are concerned) and inserting the usual foot-notes, appendices, and glossary.

  G.M.F.

  Chapter 1

  Old Professor Flashy’s first law of economics is that the time to beware of a pretty woman is not when you’re flush of cash (well, you know what she’s after, and what’s a bankroll more or less?), but when you’re short of the scratch, and she offers to set you right. Because that ain’t natural, and God knows what she’s up to. I learned this when I was fourteen, and one Lady Geraldine, a high-spirited Hebe ten years my senior, lured me out in a punt with the promise of a crown if I minded her clothes while she went bathing. In all innocence, I accepted – and I haven’t seen that five bob yet, because the randy baggage had to shell out all her loose change to buy the silence of the grinning water-bailiff who caught us unawares in the reeds, where she was teaching me natural history after her swim. I had the presence of mind even at that tender age to clap my breeches over my face and so avoid recognition as I fled, but you take the point – I had been misled, in my youthful simplicity, by a designing female who played on my natural cupidity.

  Ever since, when they’ve dangled rich rewards before me, I’ve taken fright. If the case of Mrs Phoebe Carpenter was an exception – well, she was a clergyman’s wife, and you don’t expect double-dealing from a wide-eyed simperer who sings come-to-Jesus in the choir. I don’t know why I bothered with her … yes, I do, though; shaped like an Indian nautch-dancer under her muslin, blue-eyed, golden-haired, and with that pouting lower lip that’s as good as a beckoning finger to chaps like me – she reminded me rather of my darling wife, whom I hadn’t seen in more than three years and was getting uncommon hungry for. So, reading the invitation in Mrs Carpenter’s demure smile, and having ten days to loaf in Hong Kong before my ship sailed for Home1, I decided to have a cast at her; it was a dead-and-alive hole in ’60, I can tell you, and how else should a weary soldier pass his time?

  So I attended morning and evening service, hollering hosannas and nodding stern approval while her drone of a husband sermonised about temptation and the snares that Satan spreads (about which he didn’t know the first dam’ thing), and gallantly helping her to gather up the hymn-books afterwards. I dined with them, traded a text or two with the Reverend, joined them in evening prayers, squired her along the Queen’s Road – she was all for it, of course, but what was middling rum was that he was, too; it ain’t every middle-aged vicar who cares to see his young bride escorted by a dashing Lancer with Balaclava whiskers. I put it down to natural toad-eating on his part, for I was the lion of the hour in those days, with my new knighthood and V.C., and all my Mutiny heroics to add to the fame I had undeservedly won in Crimea and Afghanistan. If you’ve read my earlier memoirs you’ll know all about it – and how by shirking, running, diving into cover, and shielding my quaking carcase behind better men, I had emerged after four campaigns with tremendous credit, a tidy sum in loot, and a chestful of tinware. I was a colonel of six years’ seniority at 37, big, bluff, handsome Flash Harry, quite a favourite with Queen and Consort, well spoken of by Palmerston and my chiefs, married to the beauteous and wealthy daughter of a peer (and a dead peer, at that) – and only I knew (though I’d a feeling that wily old Colin Campbell suspected) that my fame was all a fraud and a sham.

  There had been a time when I was sure it couldn’t last, and they were bound to find me out for the poltroom and scoundrel I was – but I’d been devilish lucky, and, d’ye know, there’s nothing sticks like a good name, provided you know how to carry your credit with a modest grin and a glad eye. Once let ’em call you a hero, and they’ll never leave off worshipping – which is absolute nuts when the worshipper cuts a figure like the adoring Mrs Carpenter’s. After three days of my society I reckoned she was ready to melt; all that was needed was a stroll in the garden after dark, a few well-chosen quotations from the Song of Solomon, and she’d play like one of thos
e abandoned Old Testament queens her husband was forever reviling from the pulpit.

  As a final rehearsal I took her out to picnic at the Poke Fullam bungalow, which was the favoured resort in Hong Kong at that time; we found a secluded spot, spread a rug, disposed of the cold prawns and a bottle of Hock, and settled down to exchange my murmured gallantries for her sighs and coy glances – I didn’t intend to board her that afternoon, you understand; too public, and she wasn’t even part-drunk. As it happened, I’d have been wasting my time, for the innocent Mrs Carpenter had been working to a fixed end just as purposefully as I. And such an end; when I think back on it, words fail me.

  She led up to it by talking of her husband’s ambition to build a church and hall over at Kowloong; even in those days it was the fashionable place, so he would be quite top dog among the local gospel-wallopers. The difficulty, says she sighing, was money – although even that would not have been insurmountable had it not been for the impending war.

  “When Sir Hope Grant begins his campaign, you see, it is certain that there will be a cessation of all China trade, even with Canton,” says she. “And when that happens – why, there will be an end to all Josiah’s hopes. And mine.” And she choked back what sounded like a little sob.

  I’d been paying no heed, content to stroke her hand, brotherly-like, while she prattled, but hearing her gulp I perked up. Get ’em weeping, and you’re halfway to climbing all over them. I feigned concern, and squeezed her hand, begging her to explain what Grant’s campaign could have to do with dear Josiah’s church-building. I knew, as all the world did, that Grant was due in Hong Kong shortly with a fleet and army whose purpose would be to go up-country and force our latest treaty down the Chinese Emperor’s throat, but it wasn’t liable to be much of a war: show the flag to the Chinks, kick a few yellow backsides, and home again with hardly a shot fired – the kind of campaign that would have suited me, if I’d been looking for one, which I wasn’t. I could thank God I’d be homeward bound before Grant arrived, for he knew me from India and would certainly dragoon me into service if I were silly enough to be on hand. You don’t pass up the chance of employing the gallant Flashy. And he don’t pass up the chance of making himself scarce.