Flashman and the Dragon. George Fraser MacDonald

felt so mortified – or so determined to have my way with a woman. Well, it wasn’t going to be rape, that was sure – nor money, apparently.

      ‘Fifty dollars?’ She laughed. ‘No, fan-qui – nor fifty thousand, from a weakling. But a strong man, now …’ She waited, with that taunting, confident smile, daring me, as I fell to raging at her and then to whining, saying it had been a trick, she’d taken an unfair advantage, damn her … and then I gave a great gasp, like Billy Bones in apoplexy, rolled my eyes, clutched my heart, and reeled fainting against the deckhouse … well, she’d not have been human if she hadn’t stepped up for a closer look, would she?

      I bar hitting women, except for fun, especially when they’re strong enough to uproot the town hall clock, but I was choking with vengeful fury – toss me about like thistledown, would she, the infernal slut? I let out a whimpering groan, and as she advanced, alarmed, I let drive my right into her midriff with all my force; she doubled up like a rag doll, her knees buckling, and I was on her back in an instant, twisting the chain collar like a garotte, flattening her by sheer weight. She clawed back at me over her shoulder, and I shot my left hand under her arm and on to the nape of her neck in a half-nelson. I was blind with rage and fit to murder, and if she’d been less abominably powerful I might have done it. But as she heaved and strained beneath me it was all I could do to hang on, doing my damnedest to choke her with the steel links biting into her throat. We thrashed and rolled about the deck, her long legs flailing; thumping against the bulkhead, then against the rail, my aching fingers twisting the collar ever tighter, her splendid shoulders heaving to break my grip – God, she was strong, and I knew in a few seconds she must break the lock.

      I gave one last despairing heave on the collar, and suddenly felt her slacken beneath me; her head gave a little beneath my left hand, and I roared with triumph. Suddenly her free hand was slapping the deck, in the age-old wrestler’s submission; I clung to the chain like grim death.

      ‘Had enough, damn you?’ I wheezed. ‘Give over, you bloody monster?’ Slap-slap, on the deck, I let the collar slacken an inch – and suddenly she reared up, breaking the headlock and tearing the collar free. I rolled away, preparing to fly for my life, when I realised she was scrambling back, holding her throat, her other hand up to ward her face. Was she beat? Was this the moment to set about her with my belt? – and then I realised that she was poised on one knee, ready for battle … and she was absolutely grinning at me, bright-eyed … and we were no longer alone.

      The unholy row had attracted half Kiangsu Province, by the look of it, certainly every coolie on the steerage deck, and a ragged mob was staring from either side of the deckhouse, with her Chinese rivermen to the fore, looking mighty truculent. As they pressed forward I put my back to the rail, reaching for the Adams – which I’d forgotten until that moment. The sight of it stopped them dead, the rivermen’s hands came away from their knife-hilts – and the girl stood up, her shoulders shuddering and heaving, and grunted something in river dialect. Then she looked at me, gasping and rubbing her throat, and so help me, she was grinning again, positively amiable.

      Tuckered as I was, I wondered bemusedly if that murderous struggle had been the usual courting ritual of this female Goliath; lust revived as I observed her fine dishevelment, with one udder peeping provocatively out of her blouse; I put up the Adams, scowled back at the mob, and then jerked my head at her. She grinned broader than ever, taking in great breaths and rubbing her throat, but then she shook her head.

      ‘Good night … fan-qui,’ says she, pretty hoarse, and then she turned and disappeared into the staring rabble behind her. Truth to tell, I didn’t much mind; I was bruised and exhausted, and another bout would have carried me off; if that was what she was like merely fighting for her life, God knew how she’d behave in amorous ecstasy. I straightened my coat and pushed through the crowd, marvelling at the minds (and bodies) of women – treat ’em civilised, and they swing you round their heads; strangle ’em, and suddenly they’re all for you. Because there was no doubt about it, now; she fancied me. It’s all a matter of the proper approach.

      I knew better than to seek her out next day, as we steamed up the sluggish Yangtse; the consummation of our wooing would be all the better for keeping. I saw her once, as I paced the upper walk after tiffin; she was standing in the steerage, gazing up, and raised a hand and gave her lazy smile at sight of me. I smiled back, surveying her carefully like a farmer at the stock-ring, then nodded as one satisfied for the moment, and turned away to resume my stroll. Aye, let her wait. I had other matters to occupy me, during the day at least; I chewed the fat with Ward, boned up on my Taiping notebook, wondered when the devil Bruce’s agent would turn up, and was first in quest of news at every village landing-place.

      The crisis was plainly at hand upriver. Off Tungchow, a downriver boat informed us that the great battle about Nanking had become a rout, with the Taipings everywhere victorious; Chen’s Celestial Singers were driving through to relieve the capital, while General Lee was driving the Imps like sheep and breaking their blockade on the river.

      ‘And ye ken what that’ll mean,’ declares Skipper Witherspoon ominously. ‘Every scoondrel in an Imp uniform’ll be castin’ awa’ his coat and turnin’ bandit. It’ll be worse than Flodden. Goad help the country! We’ll no’ see Nanking this trip, I’m thinkin’; we’ll dae well if we get the boat’s neb twenty miles past Kiangyin.’

      This was serious, for it meant that the last fifty miles of my journey would be through lawless country scourged by Imp deserters and Taiping fanatics. Well, they could count me out; if there was no sign of Bruce’s man, I’d turn back with Yangtse when Witherspoon decided he’d reached the safety limit; I couldn’t be blamed, if the country was impassable. But I knew Bruce wouldn’t care for that, and I was still studying to find a good excuse when we pulled in at Kiangyin late in the afternoon. It was the usual miserable hole of mud buildings and rickety bamboo wharves, with the usual peasants gaping apathetically, and stinking to wake the dead – the peasants and Kiangyin both. Beyond the town, stale paddy stretched away to the misty distance, with a few woods here and there, and the inevitable agriculturists and bullocks standing ankle-deep. A depressing spectacle, in no way redeemed by the appearance of the Rev. Matthew Prosser, B.A., God rest him.

      He came aboard like a vessel of wrath, stamping up the gangway and roaring, a small, round, red-faced cleric with corks hanging from his hat like an Australian swagman, a green veil streaming behind, an enormous dust-coat, and a fly-whisk which he used as a flail on hindering Orientals. Behind him tottered an urchin with his valise, and Prosser was furiously demanding the cabin steward when his eye lit on me, and he started as though he’d been stung. He kept darting furtive glances at me while he hectored the steward, and was no sooner inside his cabin than the door opened again, and his crimson face appeared, crying: ‘Hist!’

      I went over, and he dragged me in and slammed the door.

      ‘Not a word!’ cries he, and stood, listening intently with his corks bobbing. Then, in a thunderous whisper: ‘I’m Prosser. How-de-do. We shall be bearing each other company, I believe. Say nothing, sir. Remember Ehud: “I have a secret errand unto thee, oh King; who said, keep silence”.’ And he gave an enormous wink, which in that furious red face was positively alarming. ‘Be seated, sir! There!’ He pointed firmly to the bunk, and began rummaging like a terrier in his valise.

      As it happened, I remembered Ehud, the Biblical left-hander who was adept at sticking knives in folk, which was a portent if you like. As to Prosser, he seemed such an unlikely agent that I asked him if he knew Bruce in Shanghai, and he rounded on me with bared teeth. ‘Not another word! Discretion, sir! We must bind our faces in secret. Now where,’ he snarled, rummaging again, ‘did I put it? Aha, I have it! The cup was found in Benjamin’s sack!’ And he lugged out a rum bottle which must have held half a gallon. He beamed, peered at the level (which was marked in pencil), set it on the table, and caught my eye.

      ‘Well, Balshazzar drank wine, did he not?’ cries he. ‘But only after sundown, sir. And then but a small measure, against the evening chill. Yes. Now, sir, attend to me if you please. I believe you speak Mandarin? Good.’ He seemed vastly relieved. ‘Then when we have reached our destination, I shall make you known to a certain personage,