The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection

by George MacDonald Fraser

  I waited until his laughter had subsided. “Well, sir, if that’s the message I’m to take to Mr Bruce –”

  “Yes, but not yet.” He wagged a finger. “In August. In view of what you have said, it may be better if Mr Bruce has short notice of our intention. We don’t wish him to have too much time to think, and possibly commit some indiscretion.” He beamed shamelessly. “I am quite frank, you see. No, in August you will go back to Shanghai – with a Taiping army two days behind you. That will surely inspire Mr Bruce to a wise decision. And we shall be in good time before Lord Elgin reaches Pekin to conclude a treaty committing him to the losing side. All things considered, he may well decide not to go to Pekin at all.”

  He sat there, a Chinese Pickwick, smacking his lips over his hot wine, while I weighed the essential point.

  “You mean I’m a prisoner here?”

  “A guest – until August. Two months, perhaps? It will be a most pleasant holiday; I am selfish enough to look forward to it. Mr Bruce may wonder what has become of you, but he will hardly inquire after a mere traveller from the London Missionary Society.” Oh, he was a right twinkling bastard, this one. “And you may take satisfaction that you are performing the duty he laid on you – of keeping the Taipings away from Shanghai for the present.” That gave me a horrid start, but he went on amiably. “He will be able to pursue his policy of strict neutrality – until August. Until then, we shall be doing what he wants; he will be doing what we want. It is very satisfactory.”

  He was right, of course. If Bruce knew the Taipings were dead set on Shanghai, he’d have time to reinforce, perhaps even send for Grant. Lull him with inaction, and when the blow fell in August he’d have no choice but to submit to Taiping occupation – although whether we’d accept that quite as tamely as Jen-kan supposed, I was by no means sure. One thing was plain: there wasn’t a ghost of a chance of my escaping to warn Bruce ahead of the fair – not that I had the least inclination, you understand, I knew when I was well off, and would be well content to wallow for a few weeks in the luxuries of the revolution.

  Of these there was no shortage at the pavilion to which Lee conducted me after Jen-kan had gone, jovial to the last. It was another bijou palace surrounded by dwarf gardens, and belonged to Lee’s brother – a genial nonentity who was learning to write, I remember, labouring away at scrolls with a tutor. The apartments I was given were in exquisite taste; I recall the pink jade writing set and inkwell, the sprig of coral mounted on a silver block with gold pencils thrust through the branches, the tiny crystal paperweights on the gleaming walnut desk. The fact that I remember such things is proof that I was feeling pretty easy at the prospect of my captivity; I should have known better.

  Lee hadn’t said a word beyond courtesies after our meeting with Jen-kan, but I sensed an unease in him, and wondered why. It was fairly plain that he disliked the Prime Minister jealously, and I’d no doubt that behind the scenes some very pretty clawing went on among the Wangs, in which I might conceivably be a useful pawn. There was no plumbing that, and since Taiping interest seemed to require my health and happiness, I didn’t care much. But I could see Lee was anxious, and when he took leave of me that night he finally came out with it.

  “In our discussion with his excellency, I sensed – correct me if I am mistaken – that you are not wholly convinced of our ultimate success.” We were alone on the verandah, in the warm evening shadows, and as he turned those cold eyes on me I felt a prickle of disquiet. “I do not ask for a political judgment, you understand, but for a military opinion. You have seen the Imps; you have seen us. Do you believe we shall win?”

  There was only one politic answer, and since it was what I believed, pretty much, I spoke straight out.

  “Barring accidents, you’re bound to. I’d not wager on the Imps, that’s certain.”

  He considered this. “But you do not say that victory is assured, beyond all doubt?”

  “It never is. But any soldier can see when the odds are in his favour.”

  “I can see more.” The yellow-robed figure seemed to grow more erect, and his voice was hard. “I know we shall win.”

  “Well, then, it doesn’t matter what I think.”

  “But it does,” says he, mighty sharp. “It matters what you tell Mr Bruce.”

  So that was the pinch. “I’ll tell Mr Bruce what I’ve just told you,” I assured him. “I believe he’ll have every confidence in your success.” I nearly added “provided you leave Shanghai alone, and don’t provoke the foreign devils”, but decided not to.

  “Confidence,” says he slowly, “is not faith. I could wish you had … absolute faith.”

  He was a fanatic, of course. “You can put more trust in my confidence,” says I lightly. “Faith ain’t a matter of counting guns and divisions.”

  He gave me another keen look, but left it there, and I’d forgotten all about it by the time I turned in. I was pleased to see that Taiping luxury didn’t stop short of the bedroom door; they’d given me a cool, spacious chamber with screens onto the garden, and a great soft bed with red silk mattress and pillows – all that was lacking was the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees. I wondered dreamily as I dropped off if Lee’s brother, being a lesser Wang, would care to rent out one of the new wives he’d just been awarded … or all three, and I could give him confidential reports on endurance, ingenuity, and carnal appetite. Flashy, riding examiner … Gold Medal, Nanking Exhibition, 1860 … a pretty thought, on which I slid into a delightful dream in which the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees appeared as identical triplets who came gliding into the room in green silk dresses and steel-chain collars, bearing scrolls on golden trays, ranging themselves beside my bed and smiling alluringly down at me. I was just debating whether to tackle ’em one at a time, or all three together, when I realised that I couldn’t see their faces any longer, for they were all three wearing black hoods, which seemed deuced odd … and the green dresses were gone, too, under black cloaks …

  I came awake an instant too late to scream. The black figures seemed to swoop down on me, steel fingers were on my mouth and wrists, a heavy cloth was whipped over my head, and I was dragged helpless from the bed by invisible hands.

  * * *

  a Cuckoo-City-in-the-Clouds (Aristophanes).

  Chapter 7

  There’s no blind terror to compare with it – being hustled along, lurching and stumbling, by invisible attackers. You’re lost, blind, and half-suffocated, you can feel the cruelty in the clutching hands, horrible pain and dissolution await you, and the only thing worse is the moment when the blanket comes off – which mine did before my assailants had taken twenty strides.

  There was a yell and a clash of steel, a buffeting shock as my captors staggered, and I was crashing to earth, dragging the blanket away, to find myself rolling in a flowerbed, with one of my kidnappers clawing at me in the dark. I shrieked as I caught the flash of steel in the half-light, and then the knife-point was beneath my chin, and I was shuddering still, whispering entreaties for my life.

  It ain’t the best position to view a fatal mêlée that is going on a few yards away, with dark figures slashing and swearing in the shadows. I heard one horrid gurgle as a blade went home, caught the glittering arc of a curved sword swinging and the grating ring of the parry, but for the most part they fought in silence. Then the blanket was over my head again, and I was being rushed along, barking my shins and trying to yell for help, until they pulled up, a voice hissed: “Walk!” in Chinese, and I felt the prick of the point again, in my spine this time. I walked.

  How far we went, I can’t guess, but it must have been a good quarter of a mile before I felt paved stones under my feet, and presently was aware of bright light outside the blanket, and the sound of hushed voices. I was hustled up a few steps, and then there was carpet under my bare soles. We stopped, the knife was removed, and the gripping hands were withdrawn. I didn’t stir, but stood shrouded and quaking for a good five minutes, when I was pushed forward again, over tiles an
d then on to another carpet. The blanket was whipped away, and I stood blinking in bright light. Facing me, breathing with an agitation to equal my own, although my bosom could never have heaved like hers, stood the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees.

  Just for a moment I wondered if I was dreaming, but she was fully-clad, so it seemed unlikely. Deuced fetching, for all that, in a blue silk gown such as the Manchoo ladies wear, in which there are three or four skirts of varying lengths, with huge hanging sleeves, and her hair done up in high buns. She was one of your round-faced Chinese beauties, and none the worse for that, but my attention was distracted by the black-cowled figured at my elbow throwing back his hood, and I found myself gaping at General Lee Hsiu-chen.

  “I apologise. It was necessary,” says he, and I wasted no time in babbled questions. He’d tell me what he wanted me to know. He was breathing hard, and I saw a trickle of blood on the back of his hand. He nodded to the girl, and she walked away to a curtained arch at the end of the short, carpeted passage in which we stood. She waited there, head averted, and Lee spoke rapidly, getting his breath back.

  “You are to be granted audience of the Heavenly King. It is a highly unusual honour. Few foreigners have seen him for many years. He understands that you are from the London Missionary Society. Say nothing of how you came here. Listen to him.” He smiled, an odd, dreamy smile that sent chills up my back. “Yes. Listen to him. Do not be surprised if he talks all night. He does not tire as mortals do.”

  He gestured me towards the archway, and as I approached, the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees turned and held out a red silk robe – I was in the sarong I wear in bed – slipping it over my shoulders. Then she pulled back the curtains, beckoning me to follow.

  The heavy smell of incense struck my nostrils as I saw we were in a small, low chamber hung round with dragon silks. At the far end was a deep divan caught in a pool of light from two tall candle-branches, and on it reclined a short, stocky figure in white silk embroidered in gold. He was nodding sleepily in that joss-laden air, while a female voice recited high and clear:

  “The Heavenly Father, the Elder Brother, the Heavenly King, and the Junior Lord shall be Lords forever. The Heavenly Kingdom is established everywhere, and the effulgence of the Heavenly Family is spread upon all the Earth for all eternity.”

  The voice stopped, and the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees rustled forward, dropped to her knees half-way to the divan, kow-towed several times, and addressed the chap on the couch. I caught the words “… London Missionary Society …” and then she was hurrying back to me, motioning me forward, indicating that I too should kow-tow. Well, the hell with him, Heavenly King or not. I walked forward, and got a close look at him as I began to make a half-bow – a tubby little Chink, with long dark hair framing a round, amiable face, a short sandy beard, and great dark eyes that shone in his pasty face like a hypnotist’s, but with none of the force of your professional mesmeriser. They were placid, dreamy eyes, friendly and kind … and what the devil was I doing, kow-towing? I jumped up, vexed, and the big eyes smiled sleepily, holding mine. So that was his secret; you couldn’t help looking at him. With an effort I tore my glance away – and realised that we were not alone. And I can pay no higher tribute to the Tien Wang’s magnetic personality than to say that only now did I notice those others present.

  One was kneeling on the couch, holding a scroll from which she had been reading. She wore a towering gilt head-dress, like a pagoda, and a little fringe of gold threads round her hips. That was all her attire, and out of deference to royalty I modestly lowered my eyes, and found myself contemplating another naked female reclining at my feet – one more step and I’d have trod on her buttocks. I half-started back, afraid to look in case there were more bare houris perched on the candelabra. But there were just the two, twins by the look of them, still as superbly-shaped statues, lovely faces intent on the man on the couch, and apparently unaware of my existence. Reluctantly, I looked back at him, and he smiled vacantly.

  “Welcome, in the peace of God,” says he, and indicated a silken stool by the couch. It was a deep, liquid voice, with a curious husky quality. I sat, uncomfortably aware that the reclining poppet was only inches from my foot, and that if I looked straight ahead my horizon was voluptuously filled by the charms of the kneeling nymph. It’s hell in the Taiping, you know. Not that I bar contemplating the undraped female form, but there’s a time and a place, and heaven knew what I’d interrupted. I wondered if these were two of his reputed eighty-eight wives, or if he, too, had been voted a few spares, next week being his birthday and all. Good heavens – was it possible one of them was for me? I didn’t like to ask, and I didn’t get the chance, for he fixed me with those luminous, empty eyes and his melancholy smile, and began to speak to me. My heart was hammering, what with the knowledge that this was the Tien Wang, the Chinese Messiah, one of the most powerful men on earth, and that what passed between us might be vital … Bruce’s instructions … my mission … That, and the nearness of those mouth-watering little flesh-traps – d’you wonder I was sweating? It was like a wild dream: the sweet, husky voice, pausing every now and then as though to compel an answer, the blindly shining eyes, the heavy reek of incense, the silk edges of the stool hot under my hands, the satin gleam of bums, bellies and boobies in the candle-shine, the soft lunatic babble which I’d not believe if I didn’t remember every word:

  Tien Wang: … The London Missionary Society. Ah, yes … but I do not remember you … only Dr Sylvester, my dear old friend … (Long pause)

  Flashy: Ah, yes … your majesty. Sylvester. To be sure.

  T.W.: Dr Sylvester … how long? How long? (Goes into trance)

  F. (helping matters along): Couple of months, perhaps?

  T.W. (reviving vaguely): You have spoken with Dr Sylvester recently? Then you are greatly blessed. (Beatific smile) For you have made the Journey. I felicitate you.

  F.: Sorry?

  T.W.: The Journey to the Celestial Above. I, too, have spoken with Dr Sylvester in Heaven, since his earthly death in 1841. Soon the portals will open for us all, and we shall rest in the Divine Halls of Eternal Peace. Have you visited Heaven often?

  F.: Not to say often. Nothing like your majesty … weekends, that sort of thing. Just to see Sylvester, really … oh, God …

  T.W.: How well I recall his discourse … illuminating … constructive … wise …

  F.: Absolutely. Couldn’t get enough of it. (Long pause, during which F. ’s attention wanders)

  T.W.: His humanity was equalled only by his scholarship. Was there a fruit of learning that he had not plucked? Divinity … philosophy … theology … metaphysics …

  F. (musing): Tits, (in confusion) No, I mean metaphysics! Geometry, anything … he knew it all!

  T.W. (benignly): Soon we shall join him, when we have made the final Journey, but only after long and laborious struggle. When you first visited Heaven, were you given new bowels?

  F.: Eh? Oh … no, no, I wasn’t. I wasn’t considered worthy, you see … your majesty. Not then. Not for new bowels.

  T.W.: Take heart. I too was rebuked when I first entered the Golden Doors. Jesus, my Elder Brother, was angry because I had not learned my Bible lessons well. He was correct. We must all learn our Bible. (Long pause)

  F. (desperate): Moab is my washpot, over Edom will I cast out my shoe. Er … Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, thing …

  T.W.: I remember how kind Jesus’s wife was … and when my heart and entrails had been removed, I was given new ones, of shining red.

  F.: Red, eh?

  T.W.: And God gave me a sword to exterminate demons … and a seal of authority. The demons transformed themselves eighteen times, as they have power to do.

  F.: Yes, yes … eighteen. Shocking.

  T.W.: But I drove them down to Hell, and the Heavenly Mother gave me fruits and sweets. As I ate them, marvelling at their savour, God traced the Devil’s misdeeds to errors in Confucius, and rebuked him. But Confucius defended himself vehemently.


  F. (indignant): He did, did he?

  T.W.: Then Jesus and the Angels joined in against Confucius, who tried to sneak away to join the Devil, Yen-lo, but he was caught and brought back and beaten. (Smiling blankly) But at last God allowed him to sit in Heaven, in recognition of past merits.

  F. (doubtful): Well …

  T.W.: Yen-lo is the Serpent-Devil of the Garden of Eden …

  F.: Is he? Ah!

  T.W.: … and when Eve heeded his words, she was driven forth, and her children were drowned in the Great Rain. But Yen-lo seeks ever to steal men’s souls, ensnaring their senses with beautiful temptations … there were beautiful handmaidens in Heaven …

  This seemed to give him an idea, for the husky voice, which had been droning away as at a lesson learned, trailed off, and he turned to stare at the splendid naked nymph kneeling beside him. It was the first sign of intelligence I’d seen in him, for he was plainly madder than Bedlam; his mouth twitched, and he came up from his reclining position to gape, and then to reach out and fondle her neck and shoulder and arm. She stayed stock-still; he leaned closer, gaping, and I had to strain to hear.

  “… we must strive to discern false beauty from true,” he muttered, “and manfully resist Yen-lo, seeking solace only in that which is pure. So we should study the Book of One Hundred Correct Things. Let us hear now how we may resist temptation.”

  I’d have thought it was the last thing he needed to hear just then, but it was evidently a cue, for the kneeling beauty came to life with a sudden shudder that caused his Heavenly Majesty to grunt alarmingly and gape wider than ever. She lifted her scroll and began to read in a shrill, breathless little voice:

  “Temptation must be eradicated from the world, and from the human mind. By sight, by scent, by touch may temptation be aroused. Temptation is caused by the original sin of lust, in the beginning of the world.”