Flashman and the Dragon. George Fraser MacDonald

and the pug-nosed, grinning Hong Kong boat girl rolling her poonts on the thwart of a sampan and shouting: ‘Hi-ya, cap’n! Hi-ya! You wanchee jiggee no wanchee jiggee? You payee two hunner’ cash, drinkee samshu? Jollee-jollee!’

      ‘Who you, Dragon Empress?’ says I. ‘Come aboard, one hunner’ cash, maybe all-same samshu.’ They’re the jolliest wenches, the Hong Kong boaters, plump little sluts who swim like fish and couple like stoats. She squealed with laughter and plunged in, reached the lorcha in a few fast strokes, and was hauled inboard, all wet and shiny and giggling in her little loin-cloth. Anything less like an angel of Providence you never saw, but that’s what she was; if I’d guessed, I’d ha’ treated her with more respect than I did, slapping her rump and sending her aft for later. For the moment I was content to muse at the rail, enjoying the warm sunshine and the distant green prospect of Lintin, where the coolies could be seen languidly pursuing the only two occupations known to the Chinese peasant: to wit, standing stock-still up to the knees in paddy-water holding a bullock on a rope, or shifting mud very slowly from one point to another. Deny them these employments, and they would simply lie down and die, which a good many of them seemed to do anyway. I’m told that Napoleon once said that China was a sleeping giant, and when she awoke the world would be sorry. He didn’t say who was going to get the bastards out of bed.

      I put this to Ward, the skipper commanding the two lorchas which made up our little convoy. He was a brisk, wiry, bright-eyed little Yankee about ten years my junior, and though he hadn’t been in China more than a month or two, you couldn’t have wished for a smarter hand at the helm of a lorcha, or a sharper tongue when it came to keeping the Chinese boatmen up to the mark; he was a young terrier, and had learned his trade on American merchantmen, with a mate’s ticket, damn-your-eyes, which was fair going at his age. For all that, he had an odd, soft streak; when one of the Chinks was knocked overside by a swinging boom, and we lost way fishing him out, I looked to see Ward lay into him with a rope’s end for his clumsiness, or hang him from the rail to dry. But he just laughed and cuffed the Chink’s head, with a stream of pigeon, and says to me:

      ‘I fell overboard on my first voyage – and what d’ye think I was doing? Chasing a butterfly, so help me, I was! Say, I was a lot greener than that Chink, though! C’mon, ye blushing Chinese cherubs, tailee on makee pull! Pullee, I say! Tell ye what, colonel, it takes an awful lot o’ these beggars to do one man’s work!’

      That was when I observed that the Chinese were the idlest rascals in creation, and he frowned and chuckled all together.

      ‘I reckon,’ says he. ‘But they could be a fine people, for all that. Give ’em someone to lead ’em, to drive ’em, to show ’em how. They got the prime country in creation here – when they find out how to use it. Say, and they’re smart – you know they were civilised while we were still running around with paint on? Why, they had paper an’ gunpowder centuries before we did!’

      ‘Which they use to make kites and fireworks,’ says I. It was plain he was an old China hand in the making – and after a few weeks’ acquaintance, too. ‘As for their civilisation, it’s getting rottener and more corrupt and decadent by the minute. Look at their ramshackle government—’

      ‘Look at the Taipings, if you like!’ cries he. ‘That’s the new China, mark my words! They’ll stand this whole country on its head, ’fore they’re through, see if they don’t!’ He took a big breath, smoothing his long black hair with both hands in an odd nervous gesture; his eyes were shining with excitement. ‘The new China! Boy, I’m going to get me a section of that, though! Know what, colonel? – after this trip, I might just take myself a long slant up the Yangtse and join up with ’em. Tai’ping tieng-kwow, eh? The Kingdom of Heavenly Peace – but can’t they fight some? I guess so – and you may be sure they’re on the look-out for mercenaries – why, a go-ahead white man could go right to the top among ’em, maybe make Prince even, with a button on his hat!’ He laughed and slapped his fist, full of ginger.

      ‘You’re crazy,’ says I, ‘but since they are too, you’ll fit right in, I daresay.’

      ‘Fred T. Ward fits in anywhere, mister!’ cries he, and then he was away along the deck again, chivvying the boatmen to trim the great mainsail, yelling his bastard pigeon and laughing as he tailed on to the rope.

      Not only China-struck, but a well-fledged lunatic, I could see. Of course he wasn’t alone in having a bee in his bonnet about the Taipings; even the European Powers were keeping an anxious eye on them, wondering how far they might go. In case you haven’t heard of them, I must tell you that they were another of those incredible phenomena that made China the topsy-turvy mess it was, like some fantastic land from Gulliver, where everything was upside down and out of kilter. Talk about moonbeams from cucumbers; the Taipings were even dafter than that.

      They began back in the ’forties, when a Cantonese clerk failed his examinations and fell into a trance, from which he emerged proclaiming that he was Christ’s younger brother – a ploy which, I’m thankful to say, I never tried on old Arnold after making a hash of my Greek construes at Rugby. Anyway, this clerk decided he had a God-given mission to overthrow the Manchoos and establish ‘the Tai’ping’ – the Kingdom of Eternal Peace or Heavenly Harmony or what you will. He went about preaching a sort of bastard Christianity which he’d picked up from missionary tracts, and in any normal country he’d either have been knocked on the head or given a University Chair. But this being China, his crusade had caught on, against all sense and reason, and within a few years he’d built up an enormous army, devastated several provinces, thrashed various Imperial generals, captured dozens of cities including the old capital, Nanking, and come within an ace of Pekin itself. Getting madder by the minute, mark you, but among the millions of peasants who’d rallied to him and swallowed his religious moonshine, there were some likely lads who plotted the campaigns, fought the battles, and imposed his amazing notions of worship and discipline on a sizeable slice of the population.

      This was the famous Taiping Rebellion,^fn2 the bloodiest war ever fought on earth, and it was still going great guns in ’60. Countless millions had already died in it, but neither the Imperials nor the rebels looked like winning just yet; the Imps were besieging Nanking, but not making much of it, while various Taiping armies were rampaging elsewhere, spreading the gospel and piling up the corpses, as not infrequently happens.

      There was some sympathy for the Taipings among those Europeans (missionaries mostly) who mistakenly thought they were real Christians, and a few enthusiasts, as well as rascals and booty-hunters, had enlisted with them. Meanwhile our government, and the other foreign states who had some trade interest in China (and hoped to have a lot more) were watching uneasily, afraid to intervene, but devilish concerned about the outcome.

      So there you are: a Manchoo government with an idiot Emperor who thought the world was square, fighting a lethargic war against rebels led by a lunatic, and preparing to resist a Franco-British invasion which wasn’t to be a war, exactly, but rather a great armed procession to escort our Ambassador to Pekin and persuade the Chinks to keep their treaty obligations – which included legalising the opium traffic at that moment personified by H. Flashman and his band of yellow brothers.³ And in case you think I was incautious, heading upriver at such a time, take a squint at the map, and be aware that all the bloodshed and beastliness was a long way from Canton; you’d not have caught me near the place otherwise.

      We were into the Bocca Tigris, where the estuary narrows to a broad river among islands, before I started to earn my corn. Out from Chuenpee Fort comes an Imperial patrol boat with some minor official riff-raff aboard, hollering to us to heave to; Ward cocked an eye at me, but I shook my head, and we swept past them without so much as ‘good day’; they clamoured in our wake for a while, beating gongs and waving wildly, but gave up when they saw we’d no intention of stopping. Ward, who’d been anxiously scanning the big forts on the high bluffs overlooking the channel, shook his head with relief and grinned at me.

      ‘Is it always so easy?’ cries he, and I told him, not quite, we’d meet more determined inquiry farther on, but I would talk our way past. Sure enough, in late afternoon, when we were clearing Tiger Island, up popped a splendid galley, all gold and scarlet,