“Soon, Little An, two great things will happen: the barbarians will take Pekin, and the Emperor will die. No, listen, you fat fool, and keep your babbling to yourself. First, the Emperor. Only I and one discreet physician know it, but in a few weeks he will be dead, partly of his infirmities, but mostly of over-indulgence in the charms of the Yi Concubine. Well, it’s a pleasant death, and I give him every assistance. I believe,” says this Manchoo Messalina, with a reflective chuckle, “that I could have carried him off tonight, by combining the Exquisite Torment of the Seven Velvet Mirrors with the Prolonged Ecstasy of the Reluctant Shrimp, which as you know involves partial immersion in ice-cold water. But it will be soon, anyway – and who will rule China then, Little An?” She played with her feathers, smiling at his evident terror. “Will it be that amiable weakling, Prince Kung, the Emperor’s brother? Or his cousin, the hungry skeleton Prince I? Or that murderous madman, Prince Sang? Or Tungchi, the Emperor’s only son – my son? Any one of these, or as many others, might become Emperor, Little An – but who will rule China?”
Well, he could guess, all right, and I could have a suspicion myself; I knew nothing of their palace politics, or the immense power of Imperial concubines, but I know women. This one had the spirit, no error, and probably the brains and determination – above all, she had that matchless beauty which could get her whatever she wanted.
“What … too frightened even to guess, Little An? Never mind; leave the dying Son of Heaven, and consider the barbarians. Sang, the idiot, still hopes to defeat them – which is why he and his fellow-jackals have been urging the Emperor to go north to Jehol, on an ostensible hunting trip for his health!” She laughed without mirth. “In fact, Sang knows such a departure would be seen as a cowardly flight, and the Emperor would be disgraced – and Sang, having beaten the barbarians in his absence, would step into his shoes as the darling of army and people. Poor Sang! If only he knew it, the throne will soon be vacant, and his intrigues all for nothing. In any event, he will not beat the barbarians; they will be here within two weeks.”
“But that is impossible!” Little An started up in horror. “And that you should say so! You, Orchid Lady, who have urged the Emperor to fight to the end – who made him send the silk cord to defeated generals – who made him set the price on barbarian heads!”
“To be sure – a thousand taels for the Big Barbarian’s head, isn’t it?” She sounded amused. “A hundred for every white head, fifty for their black soldiers? Five hundred for Banner Chiefs like that repulsive thing there!” She waved a wing at me, the awful bitch. “Really, I must make him wear a mask in bed. But of course I urge resistance – you think I like these barbarian swine? Yehonala is the resolute champion of China, and the people know it, and will remember the Banner Knight’s daughter – especially when the Emperor is dead. Until he is, I make him fight – who do you think has kept him from fleeing to Jehol, stupid? It is quite wonderful how even such a flabby wreck as the Son of Heaven can be roused to martial ardour … in bed.”
“But if the barbarians triumph, all is lost –”
“No, little fool, all is gained! The barbarians will come – and go, with their piece of paper. China remains. With a new Emperor – but of course, he must be an Emperor acceptable to the barbarians; they will see to that before they go. And they will countenance no bitter enemies like Sang or Prince I or Sushun –”
“But, forgive me, Orchid Lady – you are their bitterest foe of all!”
“But they don’t know that, do they? They think Sang and the ministers control the Emperor – they can’t conceive the power that rest in the little lotus hand.” She raised one slim silver-taloned pinkie, and laughed. “What, a mere girl, who looks like me? Can you hear the Big Barbarian crying ‘Enemy!’ when I smile and bid my ladies serve him rose-petal tea and honey cakes in the Birthday Garden? Why, I’m just the dead Emperor’s whore – and the mother of his heir. No, to ensure a clear field for my Imperial candidate – whoever he may be – it is necessary only to ensure the complete discredit in barbarian eyes of such rivals as Sang and his reptiles. As the known leaders of resistance, they are ill-regarded already, but I shall contrive their utter disgrace – perhaps even get them hanged, who knows?”
D’you know who she reminded me of? Otto Bismarck. Not to look at, you understand, but in the smooth, sure way she summed it up and lined it out, and had you agog for her to drop the next piece into place – and a bare half-hour since she’d been rogering her soul out, whooping drunk on lust and poppy. And, like dear Otto, she was holding my interest despite my other pressing concerns; come on, come on, I was thinking, let’s hear how you’re going to get Sang to Tyburn, because I want to be there to swing on the bastard’s ankles. Little An, too, was clamouring for information, albeit apprehensively. So she told him – and I wished she hadn’t.
“It is simple. Before he dies, the Emperor will issue a final vermilion decree, ordering the execution of all barbarian captives now in the Board of Punishments. For this, the Emperor’s advisers, Sang and the rest, will be held responsible, and when the bodies are handed back, and it is seen that they have died by the usual procedures – binding, flogging, bursting, maggots – the barbarians will be in a rage for retribution. Sang will have to make apologies and excuses – that it was the work of brutal underlings, most unfortunate, much to be regretted, and so forth. The barbarians, growling, will accept the apology – and a cash compensation – as they have done in the past. They will bear no love for Sang and his friends, but they will let the matter end there. Unless,” she laughed, and it would have frozen your marrow, “there is, among the bodies, one that has died by the wire jacket, or something equally elaborate. For that cannot be excused as the casual brutality of some underling; it will be seen as a calculated, insulting atrocity. Barbarians are very sensitive about such things; they will certainly take vengeance – and I wonder if Sang will escape with his life?”
My soul shrank as I listened; only a Chinese female could plot with such cruel, diabolic cunning. Our prisoners were doomed, then, one of them by the most ghastly torture – just so that this wicked, lovely harpy could bring down her rivals and capture Imperial power. And there was nothing to be done – I didn’t even know how many of our fellows had been taken, or who. And it would be done without warning, or hope of rescue … that little toad An was at the knots and splices of it already, once he’d babbled out his admiration.
“Oh, Orchid Lady, forgive your kneeling slave!” cries he, and he was weeping buckets, so help me. “Your eyes are on the stars, and mine on the dirt! When shall it be done? And which of them shall it be? For it will be to arrange – the victim must be brought from the Board secretly, lest Sang’s people should hear. Afterwards, when the bodies are sent to the barbarian camp, it will be easy to increase their number by that one.”
“In a week, perhaps. When the barbarians prepare their final attack on the city. And who will wear the jacket?” She shrugged. “One of their leading people – Pa-hsia-li, perhaps.” So they’d got Parkes; I could hear that lazy drawl, see the superior smile, and … the wire jacket. “It does not matter. You will see it done. Now,” she stood up, stretching, “you will take me up. Oh, but I’m tired, Little An! And hungry! Why did you let me talk so long, you stupid little man!” And she pretended to box his ears, laughing, while he squeaked and feigned anguish.
That was what made my flesh crawl – the sudden capricious change from hellish scheming to playful mischief, from the cold, unspeakably cruel calculation that meant dreadful death for men she’d never seen, to happy high spirits demanding crackling with cherries, and a tea-leaf pillow because her eyes were tired. It’s a rare thing, that gift of human translation, although I’d seen it before – always in people who held immense power. I mentioned Bismarck just now; he had it. So did Lakshmibai of Jhansi – and in a way, James Brooke of Borneo, although with him it had to be a conscious act of will. For the others, it was a necessary part of their nature, to be able to turn,
in perfect oblivion, from determining the destiny of a nation, or a matter of life and death, to choosing a new hat or listening to music – and then back again, with the mind wiped clean.
Here, in an hour or so, this bonny girl of twenty-five had been subjected to heaven-knew-what debauches with a dying monarch, drugged herself with opium, run the risk of death for the mere whim of seeing some new thing (a barbarian), ravished a helpless captive for the sheer sport of it, rehearsed her plans for securing supreme political power, again at the risk of death, and was now yawning contentedly at the thought of a snack and a good sleep. God knew what her diary held for tomorrow; my point is, it wasn’t quite the home life of our own dear Queen, and it takes a nature beyond our understanding to manage it.
Now, as she yawned and hummed and resumed her cloak and hood, she spared a thought for me again, tickling mischievously and skipping away laughing as Little An scuttled in to fend her off. I was to be taken secretly, she reminded him, to the Wang-shaw-ewen, which sounded like some sort of garden (I wondered what Sang would think when his soldiers reported that the wandering boy had vanished into thin air). The little eunuch made a doubtful lip.
“A pity we must be at the trouble of removing a captive from the Board of Punishments,” grumbles he, “when we have one to hand.” At which she cuffed him soundly, and serve him right.
“Fat savage, would you harm my barbarian? You’ll treat him with care and respect, d’you hear, or I’ll have you fed to the tiny devil fish, one greasy inch at a time!” She considered me with her secret smile. “Besides, I told you I may have another use for him. Just suppose … when the other prisoners have been killed, the barbarians discover that one has been saved, and kindly treated, by the Yi Concubine. Won’t they be pleased with her – and with her party at court.” She patted his head lightly. “Well, it is a possibility.”
“Better he should wear the wire jacket!” pipes he viciously. “He deserves it – after tonight he isn’t fit to live! How could you?” He shuddered in revulsion. “Ugh! Disgusting!”
“Why, I believe you’re jealous, Little An,” she mocked him, as he lifted her in his arms. “Oh, stop sulking! Just because you’re weaponless, selfish little hound, am I to have no fun? Oh, no, I’m sorry – that was a mean thing to say! Forgive me, Little An …” As he bore her from the room she was apologising to the beastly little bladder, and her last words drifted to my ears, filling me with a new and dreadful fear. “Look, if he does not please me, or I tire of him quickly, perhaps …”
The beautiful voice faded up the stairs, and I was left a prey, as they say, to conflicting emotions.
It’s a strange thing, but I remember distinctly I wasn’t tired when they whisked me out of that lumber room just as dawn was breaking. Twenty-four hours earlier I’d been waking in my cage at Tang-chao. Since then I’d witnessed the battle of Pah-li-chao, arranged the demise of Trooper Nolan, been ill-used and terrified by Sang’s thugs, crawled to the Emperor of China, and conferred, so to speak, with his principal concubine. A busy day, you’ll allow, but while I’d a right to be played out, body and soul, I wasn’t, because I didn’t dare to be; I must keep my wits about me. For one stark thought was hammering in my brain above all others when the shadowy figures flitted into my room, to unchain and carry me swiftly out, wrapped in a carpet like Cleopatra as ever was – whatever happened now, I must not, for my very life’s sake, utter so much as a syllable in Chinese.
It was the grace of God that Little An hadn’t been present when I babbled before the Emperor; true, he’d later suggested slitting my tongue, but that presumably had just been native caution – he plainly didn’t even suspect that I understood the lingo, or he’d never have permitted Yehonala to pour out her girlish dreams in my hearing. To both of them, I was a mere lump of uncomprehending barbarian beef, and if ever they realised that I’d taken in every word … quite. Thank heaven I’d been gagged throughout our meeting, or I might well have spoken at some point … “You permit yourself strange liberties, madam,” for example.
Well, they didn’t know, and provided I kept my trap shut, they never would. Only the Emperor and his nobles were aware of my linguistic skill, and I wasn’t liable to be meeting them again. In the meantime, I faced the prospect of becoming stallion-en-titre to that gorgeous little tyrant, which was capital … and the possibility, if she tired of me, or it suited her murderous plan, that I’d be the one given the wire jacket when they started butchering prisoners. That wouldn’t be for a week; I had that much law in which to escape and take word to Grant that he’d better look sharp if he was to rescue them. Then again … escaping would be damned risky; my safest course might well be to lie snug, bulling Yehonala’s pretty little rump off, and pray that she’d exempt me from the slaughter, which she seemed inclined to do. Which meant letting the other prisoners go hang; aye, well, it’s a cruel world. It was all very difficult, and I must just wait and see what seemed best – best for Flashy, you understand, and good luck to everyone else.
These were my thoughts as I was borne off, and one thing quickly became plain: in the event that escape did eventually seem advisable (and sorry, Parkes, but on the whole I’d rather not) at least it wouldn’t have to be from the Forbidden City, which would have been next to impossible. For after my swathed carcase had been carried some way, it was slung aboard a cart, and driven for about two miles through city streets, to judge from the noises. Then the rumble of other traffic and the din of the waking city ceased, our speed picked up, there were several cock-crows, and I guessed we were in open country. After about half an hour the cart slowed to a walk, my carpet was stripped away, I was hauled into a sitting position, and looked about me.
My escort were four men dressed like Little An, which meant they were eunuchs – nominally, at least, for while three were squeaking butterballs, the fourth was lean and whiskered and spoke in a bass croak. There’s one who’s all present and correct, thinks I, and he probably was. These eunuchs, you see, are an extraordinary gang; in most eastern countries, they’re prisoners or slaves who’ve been emasculated and given charge of the royal womenfolk. But not in China, where they’re absolutely volunteers, I swear it. It’s a most prestigious career, you see, offering huge opportunities of power and profit, and there are young chaps positively clamouring to be de-tinkled so that they can qualify for the job. Not a line of work that would appeal to me, but then I’m not Chinese. However, royal concubines being what they are (and you may have gathered that Yehonala, for one, was not averse to male society) it was sometimes arranged that a candidate escaped the scissors and took up his duties in full working order. I suspect that my chap in the cart was one such, and a capital time he must have had of it, since concubines outnumbered the Emperor by about three hundred to one, and his majesty was so besotted with Yehonala that the others had to look elsewhere for diversion. But fully-armed or not, the eunuchs were the most influential clique at court, as spies, agents, and policymakers; saving the Emperor, the most powerful man in China was undoubtedly Little An, the Chief Eunuch – and he was right under Yehonala’s dainty little thumb.
But I’ll digress no longer, for now I have to tell you of one of the most wonderful things I’ve ever seen, a marvel to compare with any on earth – and no one will ever see it again. There are many beautiful things in the world, mostly works of Nature – a Colorado sunset, dawn over the South China Sea, Elspeth, primroses, cold moonlight on the Sahara, an English woodland after rain. Man cannot make anything to equal these, but just once, in this critic’s opinion, he came so close that I’d hate to live on the difference. And it was done by shaping Nature, delicately and with infinite patience, as probably only Chinese artists and craftsmen could have done it. This was what I was privileged to see that September morning.
As I remember, we were leaving a little village, on a narrow road between high stone walls, which took us over a stone bridge and a causeway through a lake to a great carved entrance gate. Beyond that was a courtyard, and a massive buildi
ng, blazing with gold in the rising sun; we drove past it and a scattering of lesser pavilions, and then it burst on the view in all its perfect, silent splendour, and I gasped aloud in wonder, while the eunuchs squeaked and laughed and nudged each other to see the barbarian stricken dumb as he gazed for the first time on the Summer Palace.
As you may have heard, it was not a palace at all, but a garden eight miles long – but it wasn’t a garden, either. It was fairyland, and how d’you describe that? I can only tell you that in that vast parkland, stretching away to distant, hazy hills, there was every beauty of nature and human architecture, blended together in a harmony of shape and colour so perfect that it stopped the breath in your throat, and you could only sit and wonder. I can talk of groves of trees, of velvet lawns, of labyrinths of lakes with pavilioned islands, of temples and summer houses and palaces, of gleaming roofs of imperial yellow porcelain seen through leaves of darkest green, of slow streams meandering through woods, of waterfalls cascading silently down mossy rocks, of fields of flowers, of pebbled paths winding past marble basins where fountains played like silver needles in the sunlight, of deer cropping daintily beneath spreading branches, of willow-pattern bridges, of dark grottoes where pale gold statues shone faintly in the shadows, of lotus pools where swans slept – I can write these things down, and say that they were spread out like a great magic carpet in glorious panorama as far as the eye could see, and what does it convey? Very little; it may even sound vulgar and overdone. But you see, I can’t describe how one delicate shade of colour blends into another, and both into a third which is not a colour at all, but a radiance; I can’t show you how the curve of a temple roof harmonises with the branches that frame it, or with the landscape about it; I can’t make you see the grace of a slender path winding serpentine among the islands of a lake that is itself a soft mirror bordered by ever-changing reflections; I can’t say why the ripple of water beneath the prow of a slow-gliding pleasure barge seems to have been designed to complement the shape of barge and lake and lily-pad, and to have been rippling since Time began. I can only say that all these things blended into one great unified perfection that was beyond belief, and damned expensive, too.
Flashman Papers Omnibus Page 360
