We dismounted before a low wall dividing the length of the street – the quality use the palace side, and the rabble t’other, and if the latter stray the guards beat ’em to pulp in the name of democracy. Lee led the way through the gate and then through a series of courts and gardens of dwarf shrubs, discoursing as he went – and it was now that I got the unexpected shock I mentioned earlier. For after some commonplace remarks about the building, he suddenly says:
“In describing this as His Majesty’s earthly residence, I do not imply any earthly term to his existence. He is, as you know, immortal, but a time will come when he decides to take up permanent abode in Paradise. As it is, he makes frequent visits there, in his Dragon Chariot, for discussions with God. Of late his wife has accompanied him on these excursions to Heaven, and conversed with the Heavenly Father and the Elder Brother Jesus.”
I wondered if I’d misheard, or if he was speaking symbolically or even with irony. But he wasn’t. He went on, conversationally:
“It is a gratifying demonstration of the ordained equality of the sexes in the Heavenly Kingdom that the Heavenly King’s consort enters so fully on his affairs. It was she, you know, who received the divine command that henceforth the Tien Wang should devote himself to meditation – apart from such duties as annotating the Book of Revelation – so that he may be fully prepared to take his place with the Junior Lord, his son, in Paradise, and sit with God and the Elder Brother.”
“I see”, seemed the best response with which to cover my sheer amazement and alarm. Until now, this apparently normal young man had spoken sanely and rationally, and here, suddenly, without a gleam in his eye or foam on his lips, he was talking the most outrageous balderdash. I knew that from all accounts the Heavenly King was as mad as a senile Sapper, but this was one of his foremost generals! Could he conceivably believe this bilge about dragon chariots and tête-à-têtes with the Almighty, with Mrs Heavenly King going along, presumably to help with the service of tea and ginger biscuits?
Hesitantly, and in the hope of receiving an answer that would restore my faith in Lee’s sanity, I inquired how old his Heavenly Majesty might be, and when he could be expected to go aloft permanently, so to speak. I was a fool to ask.
“In earthly terms,” says Lee placidly, “he is forty-seven, but in fact he was born out of the belly of God’s first wife before Heaven and Earth existed. How else could he have observed all the events of the Old Testament, and Jesus Christ’s descent to earth, before deciding to manifest himself in 1813? As to when he will sit with the Heavenly Family permanently, and shine on all lands and oceans, we cannot tell. The Heavenly South Gate will open one day; in the meantime, we must all fight valiantly for eternal glory.”
“There’s no doubt of that,” says I. Was he having me on? Or did he simply repeat this moonshine because it wasn’t safe to do otherwise? It’s hard enough to read a Chinaman’s thoughts, but I had a horrible feeling he meant every word of it. Dear God, were they all non compos mentis?13
He left me with these uncomfortable thoughts, in a small outer palace, with an escorting officer, while he went in to the Wang council, and no doubt to hear an account of what they’d had for luncheon in Heaven yesterday. Nor did my surroundings do anything to quiet my fears; we were in a fairly filthy audience chamber, decorated with the crudest kind of drawings, gilded lanterns, and tatty flags and bunting, presided over by a grinning young imbecile who was plainly far gone with opium – which I, remembering that it was a capital offence, thought odd until I learned that he was the acting Prime Minister, “the Son of the Prince of Praise”. He wore a filthy silk robe and a big embroidered dragon hat with a little bird on top, and was surrounded by officials; there was also a half-company of troops posted round the hall – filthy, slovenly brutes quite unlike the smart Taipings of Lee’s camp.
My guiding officer presented me to this beauty, who giggled vacantly, invited me in a slurred, stuttering voice to pass into the dining-room next door, apologised for having no strong drink to offer me, and at the same time reached under his table and handed me out a bottle of London gin. I declined courteously, and passed the time studying a great wall map of the world – or rather, of “The Entire Territory of the Heavenly Kingdom to Endure for a Myriad Myriad Years”. It showed China as a perfect square, with Nanking in the middle, but no sign of Pekin; Japan was a speck, Britain and France small blobs in the top corner, and a smear to one side proved to be the State of the Flowery Flag, or U.S.A. to you. The rest of the world had apparently been suppressed by heavenly decree. (We are the Red-haired State, by the way, and according to a scroll beside the map which my guide translated, we are the most powerful country apart from China, on account of our correct methods, shrewdness, dishonesty, and refusal to be subjugated.)
There was a great inner arch from the chamber, and through it, across an open court, could be glimpsed the gateway to the Inner Palace, with “Sacred Heavenly Door” inscribed above, and two enormous painted dragons, one eating the sun and the other pursuing a shrimp. I was pondering the mystical meaning of this when a most unholy din broke out from the Inner Palace – guns firing, drums rolling, cymbals clashing – and across the courtyard passed a procession of women bearing steaming golden dishes (bad pork and cabbage, by the odour) in at the Sacred Heavenly Door. This, says my escort, was the signal that the Heavenly King was going to dinner, drawn by women in his Dragon Chariot; the guns and drums would continue until he had finished. I asked if we could go in for a peep, and he looked shocked.
“Only the thousand women attending His Heavenly Majesty are permitted in the Inner Palace,” says he. “The presence of men – except for the Wangs and certain great ones – would disturb his constant labour of writing decrees, revising the Scriptures, and conceiving new precepts. If we are privileged, we may presently hear the result of his morning’s meditation.”
Sure enough, he’d barely finished speaking when trumpets blared from the Inner Palace gateway, and across the court came the most stunning Chinese girl, all in green silk and carrying a golden tray with a yellow silk scroll.
“The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees!” cries my chap eagerly, and he and every soul in our audience chamber dropped to his knees yelling “Ten thousand Years! Ten thousand Years!”, the only exceptions being the ignorant foreigner Flashy, who stood admiring the approaching beauty, and the deputy Prime Minister, who fell flat on his face and was sick.
The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees sashayed in like the Queen of Sheba, unrolled her scroll, glanced round superciliously (with a brief frown at the leering barbarian), and in a high sing-song voice read out the Heavenly King’s last thought before luncheon: it was a decree announcing that since his birthday fell next week (renewed yells of “Ten thousand Years!”) all the Senior Wangs might take another ten wives in addition to the eleven they had already, while Lesser Wangs would have their ration increased from six to nine. The public (who had one wife if they were lucky) were not mentioned.
Thunderous applause greeted this announcement (though what they had to cheer about wasn’t clear to me), and the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees handed her scroll to a grovelling minion, smiled graciously, shot me another reproving look, and made her stately way back to the palace, twitching her shimmering rump as she went. Observing this, and reflecting on the new decree, which all present were hailing with enthusiasm, I made a mental salute to the Taiping Rebellion – like all revolutionary movements (and for that matter all governments) it was plainly designed to ensure the rulers an abundance of fleshpot, while convincing the ruled that austerity was good for the soul. But barring the Papists, I couldn’t think of a regime that had the business so nicely in hand as this one.14
Needless to say, I kept the thought to myself, although I couldn’t resist trying to draw Lee gently when he came to bear me off to dinner at his own palace, apologising that it wasn’t completed yet, in spite of the efforts of a thousand coolies who were slaving like beavers on it. I remarked that it was a fine system where the w
orkers were content to live like pigs while providing their rulers with luxury – and not getting a penny piece for it. He just shrugged, and says: “You English believe in paying for work. We know better – are we not a great empire?” It wasn’t even cynical, just a plain philosophy, like his apparently sincere religious lunacy, and left me wondering harder than ever about him.
His was a modest enough spread, a mere gold and white bijou residence set in two or three acres of magnificent garden, with fantastically-dressed boys and girls swarming round us like gilded butterflies and ushering us to a charming little pavilion surrounded by a miniature rock and tree garden. Here a tiny child in yellow silk was waiting on the steps, and I was taken right aback when he bowed, held out a hand to me, and says in perfect English: “Good afternoon, sir.”
I recovered enough to say: “Well, hollo yourself, young shaver, and see how you like it,” and at that there was a burst of laughter from the pavilion, and out comes a jolly-looking Chinese, all portliness in a rather faded blue dragon robe. He patted the lad on the head and gave me an inclination that was half-nod, half-bow.
“My dear sir,” says he, “you remind me that my own English is too correct, and that if my son is to master the language he must go to school to you.” He chuckled and lifted the boy up in a muscular arm. “Eh, young shaver?”
This was astonishing, but now Lee came up and presented me, reciting the titles of the stout party, who stood listening with a quizzy grin: “… Founder of the Dynasty, Loyal Chief of Staff, Upholder of Heaven, Adjudicator of the Court of Discipline –”
“– and former secretary of the Artisans Christmas Club at Hong Kong!” cries the stout chap merrily.
“– His Excellency Hung Jen-kan, First Minister of the Heavenly Kingdom,” concluded Lee, and I realised that this cheery, plump-faced man, bouncing the child on his shoulder, was the power behind the throne, the reputed brain of the Taiping, second only to the Tien Wang himself. They were setting out the best crockery for Flashy, weren’t they just? As Lee ushered us into the pavilion, I was trying to remember what I’d heard of Jen-kan – that he’d spent his life mostly in Protestant Missions (which accounted for his excellent English), that he was the Heavenly King’s cousin, but had taken no part in the revolution until a year ago, when he’d turned up suddenly at Nanking. Since then he’d risen like a rocket to Supreme Marshal (Generalissimo, they call it); I wondered how Lee and the other Wangs felt about being so suddenly outstripped.
Four little tables, one apiece, had been set out for dinner in the pavilion. The small boy addressed me, airing his English, ceremoniously helped me to my place, and Jen-kan, grinning with proud delight, winked at me – a thing I’d never seen a Chinese do before.
“Forgive my son,” says he, “but to speak English to an Englishman is for him a dream come true. I encourage him, for without English how can he hope to reap the benefit of Western education, which is the best in the world? Every child in China must learn English,” he added gravely, “if only so that they may understand the jokes in Punch.” And he roared with laughter, shaking in his chair.
It was extraordinary, from a Chinese – but as I soon learned, Jen-kan was an extraordinary man. He knew the world, and had his feet on the ground; the bright brown eyes, which vanished in the fat, good-natured face when he laughed, were deep and shrewd, and he thought more like a Westerner than any Oriental I ever knew. Here’s one that matters, I thought, listening as he gassed non-stop, mostly in Chinese for Lee’s benefit, but now and then forgetting himself into English, with splutters of mirth. Lee sat impassive, being the perfect host, inviting me to dishes, deprecating the food – which was superb, I may say. It came in nine little petal-shaped dishes to each table, the petals fitting together to form a perfect rose as the meal progressed. No chopsticks, either, but Sheffield knives and silver forks and spoons; several of the dishes were Western, in politeness to me, I fancy. There was wine in gold cups held in enamelled silver cases – sherry, if you please, from bottles with wrapped paper plugs instead of corks. I had thought liquor was forbidden in the Taiping; Jen-kan pealed with mirth.
“So it is! But I told the Tien Wang, if I cannot drink, I cannot eat. So he gave me a special dispensation. Unlike this law-breaker.” And he nodded at Lee, who surveyed him in silence and poured more sherry.
When the meal was done, and the servants had brought hot Chinese wine and cheroots, Jen-kan nodded to his son, who rose, bowed to me, and piped: “Sir, I take my leave, charmed by your conversation and by the courtesy with which you have tolerated my clumsy attempts at your glorious language.”
“My son,” says I, “you speak it a dam – a great deal better than most English boys twice your age.” At which he shot his father a delighted glance before composing himself and marching out. Jen-kan proudly watched him go, sighed contentedly, bit a cheroot, glanced at Lee, and then at me. Business, thinks I, and braced myself. Sure enough, Lee asked if I had given thought to what he’d said at our first meeting: what was the likely British reaction to a Taiping march on Shanghai?
I was starting to say that as a humble traveller from the London Missionary Society I could only speculate, when Jen-kan broke in.
“We can dispense with that … Sir Harry.” He chuckled at my expression of dismay. “If Mr Bruce wishes his intelligence chief to pass incognito, he should choose one whose likeness has not appeared so frequently in the picture papers. I acquit him of trying to impose on us, but he should remember that the Illustrated London News may not be unknown in Pekin. Now, may I say how delighted I am to make your acquaintance? I have been an admirer for years – ever since you dismissed Felix, Pilch and Mynn … in ’42, was it not?” He beamed jovially on this reminder of how Englified he was, and since there was no use beating about, I shrugged modestly, and he put his elbows on the table, Western fashion.
“Good. Now we can talk plainly. The Loyal Prince has already given you reasons why you should welcome us at Shanghai. This may have led you to suppose that our arrival depends on Britain’s attitude. It does not. We shall come when we are ready, in August, with or without British approval.” He drew on his cheroot, regarding me benevolently. “Obviously we hope for it, and I am confident that when Mr Bruce realises that our occupation is inevitable, he will decide to welcome it. He will be in no doubt of our invincibility once you have reported to him; you have seen our army, and you will observe it in action when the Loyal Prince goes presently to expel the Imps from Soochow.”
That was uncomfortable news, but I didn’t let on.
“Mr Bruce will see that our final victory over the Manchoos is only a matter of time, and that opposition from Britain at Shanghai would be not only futile but impolitic. You will also inform him that, as an earnest of good will to Her Majesty’s Government, our first act in Shanghai will be to place an order worth one million dollars for twenty armed steamships, which will greatly hasten the destruction of the Imperial forces.”
He studied a moment, like a man who wonders if he’s left out anything, and gave me his fattest smile. “Well, Sir Harry?”
So there it was, the big stick and a carrot, and my mission dead and buried. For plainly no persuasion of mine was going to keep the Taipings away from Shanghai; all Bruce’s diplomatic step-dancing would be wasted on these fellows; they said, and they would do. Unless it was bluff, in which case counter-bluff might be in order … I ran cold sweat at the thought, knowing that what I said next might alter the history of China – God, what Napoleon would have given to be in my shoes, and how I wished he was.
“I’m obliged to your excellency,” says I. “But do you think it wise to take Britain’s reaction for granted?”
“I don’t!” cries he cheerfully. “Whether you welcome or oppose us, we shall have Shanghai.” Mildly he added: “The Loyal Prince’s army will number not fewer than fifty thousand men.”
“Fifty thousand men who’ve never met British or French regulars,” says I, equally mildly. Not diplomatic, I agree, but I ai
n’t partial to having the law laid down to me by fat chaps with yellow faces. This one just smiled and shook his head.
“Come, Sir Harry. A mere token garrison. Mr Bruce could not resist us even if he wished – which I am persuaded he does not.”
Well, that was God’s truth, but I had to play it out for what it was worth. I gave him my true-blue stare. “Possibly, sir. But if you’re wrong, there exists a possibility that you’ll find yourselves at war with Great Britain.” Bruce would have swooned to hear me.
“Why?” This was Lee, sharp and intense, his lean face strained. “Why? What can it profit England to fight against fellow Christians? How can – ?”
“Loyal Prince.” Jen-kan raised a plump finger. “Our guest knows his people better than you do. So, with respect, do I. And they are the last I should try to … persuade, in normal circumstances. But the circumstances are not normal, Sir Harry,” he came back to me. “Shanghai is not a British city; it is the Emperor’s, and you are,” he smiled apologetically, “only his tenants, in an upstairs room. Your lives and property will be safe from us – indeed, your traders will enjoy a freedom unknown under the Manchoos.” He grinned a fat man’s satisfied grin. “You will welcome us. Britain does not want another war in China – certainly not with a regime that offers million-dollar contracts. When did the Manchoos promise as much? They don’t even like your opium!”
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 347
