Flashman and the Dragon

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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, and leave you to your business.’ He nodded heavily, glanced at the bottle, and muttered something about the Lord being good to them that wait.

‘But you’ll be staying with me in … where we’re going?’ says I. He might not be much, but he’d be better than nothing.

He shook his head angrily. ‘No such thing, sir! I am known, you see, and they watch me, and send forth spies that they may take hold of my words. You will do better without me – indeed, the less we are seen together, the better, even now. And once I have made you known, discreetly, to one who, like Timothy, is faithful in the Lord … faithful, I say … then my task is done. Besides, I have my own work!’ And he glared at the bottle again, while I concluded that the faithful one must be the Loyal Prince, General Lee Hsiu-chen of the Taipings. Why the devil couldn’t he say so, instead of acting like Guy Fawkes?

This was disconcerting. I’d supposed I would be dry-nursed to Nanking by some capable thug who not only knew the Taipings backwards, but could give me all manner of useful tips, and do most of the work, with luck. Instead, here was this bottle-nosed parson, who didn’t want to be seen near me, couldn’t wait to get shot of me, and daren’t even say the simplest thing in plain language.

I said I must have some information, and he said, quite short, that he hadn’t any. I pointed out that the boat might not go as far as Nanking, in which case he’d have to be seen in my company, probably trudging through bandit-infested country. He didn’t take this kindly, but growled that if the hosts of Midian were prowling, the Lord must see us through, and cheered me up no end by producing an ancient muzzle-loader revolver from his valise and jamming rounds into it, twitching towards his bottle the while.

I gave up, and left him with a nasty reminder that sundown wasn’t for another half-hour. As soon as the door closed I heard the cork pop. Be not among wine-bibbers, thinks I, and recalling that that verse ended with reference to riotous eaters of flesh, went in search of dinner.

Well, it was all sufficiently hellish. How, I asked myself for the thousandth time in my life, had I got into this? A couple of months earlier I’d been homeward bound, and now I was heading on a secret mission that made my flesh crawl, into the bloodiest civil war ever known, on a rickety steamboat in company with the likes of the Reverend Grogpickle and Frederick Townsend Ward who, between them, probably had as sure a touch for catastrophe as any pair I’d ever struck. Stay, though – there was my wrestling wench down on the steerage deck. A bout with her in my cabin might not disperse the blue-devils entirely, but God knows when I’d have another chance. I finished my dinner quickly, and went out on the upper deck.

We were well up from Kiangyin by now, but what kind of country we were in it was impossible to tell. The sky overhead was clear enough, with a bright silver moon, but the river itself was shrouded with fog, and we were pushing into the fleecy blanket at slow ahead, the siren hooting dismally. Traces of it hung like wraiths on the narrow promenade outside the cabins, with a clammy touch on the skin; the sooner I was snug with my giantess, the better.

Out of curiosity I stuck my head into Prosser’s cabin, and he was flat on his back and snoring in an atmosphere you could have cut up and sold in the pubs. And I was just pulling the door to again when a sudden tremendous shock threw me off my feet, the Yangtse shuddered like an earthquake, plates shattered in the dining-saloon, and faint cries of alarm sounded from the steerage deck. The boat lurched, and stopped, and began to swing. She was aground.

I pulled myself up, damning Witherspoon or whoever was at the wheel – and in an instant was flat on my face again as a ragged volley of shots came out of the mist to port, smashing a window overhead and splintering woodwork, someone shrieked in pain, the brazen clash of a gong started beating out on the water, and the night was rent by a chorus of infernal yelling from beneath the stern. Shots were cracking out, mingled with the explosion of fire-crackers – one landed within a foot of me, snapping and sending out a shower of sparks – something hit the Yangtse a grinding jar on her quarter, and close at hand were racing feet and Ward’s voice yelling:

‘Pirates! Stand to! Pirates!’

To race into my cabin, seize the Adams, and ram handfuls of loose rounds into my pockets was the work of a few seconds; to guess what had happened took even less time. River bandits, or possibly Imp fugitives turned brigand, had somehow blocked the channel and were about to swarm aboard – that thump under the stern had been a raft or sampan, crowded with Chinese savages who would pour over us in a wild, slashing wave, slaughter and torture most hideously whoever survived the attack, loot and burn the steamer, and be off into the web of side-creeks before the nearest Imperial garrison was any the wiser. I’d seen it in Borneo, and knew precisely what to expect – which is why you now behold the unusual spectacle of Flashy making towards the scene of action, and not fleeing for cover – of which there wasn’t any.

For I knew that in this kind of ambush the first sixty seconds was the vital time. That wild volley, the ridiculous fire-crackers, the clashing gong and the howling chorus – these were the war-whoop, designed to freeze the victim in terror. Our attackers would have few firearms; they’d rely on cold steel – swords, knives, kampilans, axes, Aunt Jemima’s hatpin – to hack down opposition, and once they were on our decks in force we were done for. Catch ’em with a brisk fire before they could board, and we stood a fair chance of driving them off.

I pounded along the narrow promenade to the after rail and could have whooped with relief at the sight of two Sikh guards on the wide stern deck ten feet below me, blazing away at the devil’s crew who were tumbling over the quarter-rail. About half a dozen had reached the deck, horrible creatures in loin-cloths and pigtails, wielding swords, others in peasant dress with spears and knives, shrieking contorted yellow faces everywhere – and the two Sikhs with their Miniés calmly picked their men and tumbled ’em with well-placed shots.

‘Reload! Reload!’ I bawled, to let ’em know they were covered, for they’d been about to drop their empty pieces and draw their swords, which would have been suicide. One Sikh heard me, and as I opened fire with the Adams he and his mate were whipping in fresh charges. I knocked over two with five shots, and with four down they wavered at the rail. I was feverishly pushing in fresh loads when I heard another revolver, and there was Witherspoon beside the Sikhs, booming away across the smoke-filled deck.

I heard feet behind me, and there was Ward, pistol in hand. ‘Get forrard!’ I yelled. ‘They’ll come at the bow, too!’ He didn’t hesitate, but turned and went like a hare – you’ll go far if you live through this, thinks I, and in that moment I heard the screams and yells and clash of steel from the steerage forrard, and knew that they were into us with a vengeance. I turned to the rail again – and here was more bad news, for Witherspoon’s gun was empty, one of the Sikhs was down, and the other was laying about him with his rifle-butt. A dozen pirates were on the deck, and even as I let fly again I saw Witherspoon cut down by a gross yellow genie with a kampilan. I blazed away into the brown, and now the vicious horde had spotted me, yelling and pointing upwards. A shot whistled overhead and a spear clattered on the bulkhead behind me – and I thought, time to go, Flashy my son.

For it was all up. God knew what was happening at the bow, but the brutes were well established here, and in two minutes they’d be butchering the coolies and cutting down the remaining crew. My plan was already formed: time to reload, down to the saloon deck or even lower, and at the first sight of the enemy, over the side and swim for it. And after that the Lord would provide, God willing. Which reminded me of Prosser, but he was a certain goner, drunk and damned.

I came down the ladder at a race, reloading frantically, and reached the saloon deck. All hell was breaking loose on the steerage forrard; I heard the crash of the Miniés – Ward must have the remaining Sikhs at work. Then down to the main deck – I knew there was no way through from the stern; the pirates there would have to climb up to the saloon deck and come down as I had done. I slipped through the door to the open steerage, and it was like Dante’s Inferno.

A battle royal was raging round the deckhouse forrard, but nothing to be seen for smoke. Nearer me, coolies were going over the rail like lemmings, apart from a sizeable group over to starboard who were wailing fearfully and evidently trying to burrow through the deck. For twenty feet in front of me the port side of the deck was almost clear as a result of the coolie migration – by God, here were two of ’em coming back over the rail! And then I saw the glittering kampilans and the evil, screaming faces, and I shot the first of them as he touched the deck. The second, a burly thug in embroidered weskit and pantaloons, with an enormous top-knot on his bald skull, sprang down, waving an axe, and I was about to supply him with ballast when a fleeing coolie cannoned blindly into me, I went sprawling – and my Adams clattered away into the scuppers.