“Is this the creature?” growls Sang, and Prince I nodded imperceptibly, and piped in his thin voice: “He was with Pa-hsia-li when that lying dog deceived us at Tang-chao.”
“Then he may go the way of Pa-hsia-li,” snarls Sang. “It is enough for the moment that he is what the barbarian scum call an officer. An officer!” He stooped to scream in my face:
“Who is your commander, pig-dung?”
“General Sir Hope –” I was beginning, and he knocked me flying with his boot.
“You lie! You have no generals! Who commands your ships?”
“Admiral Ho –”
He screamed and stamped on my arm, agonisingly. “Another lie! You have no admirals! You are barbarian swine – you have no nobles, no officers, no generals or colonels or admirals! You have animals who grunt louder than the rest, you offal! That is all!” He was bent over me, raving, spraying me with his spittle, glaring like a maniac. Then he straightened up, snarling, and snapped an order to the Bannermen.
I was huddled, babbling to be let alone, terrified as much by the brute’s frenzied ranting as by what he might do to me. And what happened now reduced me to the final depth of fear.
The Bannermen were carrying in a stool, on which was seated a naked Chinese, a white, shuddering figure who seemed to have no arms – until I realised that they were clamped tight against his body by a horrible coat of meshed wire, bound so tight that his flesh protruded through the spaces in obscene lumps about the size of finger-tips. It covered him from neck to knee, and I’ve seen nothing more disgusting than that trembling, rippled skin in its hideous wire casing.
They plumped the stool down in front of me, the poor wretch slobbering with terror.
“The wire jacket,” says Sang, grinning. “Even a benighted worm of a fan-qui must have heard of it.” Without taking his eyes from me he beckoned, and one of the Bannermen came forward, carrying an open razor. He laid the shining blade on the victim’s shoulder, and the fellow jerked and squealed at the touch of the steel. Sang watched me, and then nodded, the Bannerman flicked his wrist, the trembling mouth before me gaped in a dreadful scream, and one of the flesh-lumps had vanished, replaced by a tiny disc of blood which coursed down the naked arm.
Sang bellowed with laughter, absolutely slapping his sides, and the burly Sushun came forward, chuckling, to peer at the wound. I turned my head aside, gagging, and received a stinging slap across the face.
“Watch, coward!” roars Sang, and slapped me again. “Now,” says he, “a wearer of the wire jacket has been known to receive as many as ten thousand cuts … and still live. Indeed, he may live for months, if the executioner is patient, and eventually he will have no skin at all.” He laughed again, enjoying my terror. “But if a quicker despatch is desired …” He nodded again, and the Bannerman’s razor streaked down the full length of the victim’s arm.
I didn’t faint. I could wish I had, for I’d have been spared the tortured screaming, and the diabolical laughter, if not the bloody pool which remained on the marble after they’d carried that babbling wretch out of the room. I wonder I didn’t go crazy; I fairly grovelled to these fiends, begging them to let me be, not to cut me, anything so they spared me that unthinkable cruelty. Oh, I’ve faced some horrors in my time – Narreeman and her knife, Mimbreno squaws out for an evening’s amusement, Malagassy inquisitors, and Ignatieff with his knout, but nothing more ghastly than the gloating enjoyment of those two devils, Sang and Sushun. Prince I sat in the background, immobile, his face expressionless.
“You have seen, dog-dirt,” snarls Sang. “Now hear. You will wear the wire jacket, I swear, and when your foul carcase has been flayed, an inch at a time, it will be thrown to the maggots – and still you will be living. Unless you obey to the uttermost the orders we give you. Do you hear me, kite?”
I’d do anything, I whined, anything he asked, and he seemed satisfied and kicked me again for luck. He thrust his face into mine, dropping his voice to a mere rasp:
“You are to be honoured beyond your bestial imagining. You are going into the Divine Presence, and you will go like the crawling animal you are, on your knees, and you will speak. This is what you will say.” He gestured to Sushun, and the burly brute swaggered forward, towering over me, and shouted:
“I am a Banner chief in the Red-haired Army, a trusted creature of the Big Barbarian. See, I lay at your Divine Feet the unworthy sword which, misbegotten foreign slave that I am, I dared to raise in revolt against the authority of the Complete Abundance. I was misled by evil counsellors, my master the Big Barbarian and the arch-liar Pa-hsia-li, who tempted me from my allegiance to the glorious Kwa-Kuin, the Tien-tze, the Son of Heaven. I marched in their army, which prevailed by lies and treachery against the trusting and unwary generals of the Divine Emperor. At Sinho, for example, we succeeded only by despicable fraud, for our leaders bade us perform the kow-tow before the Imperial soldiers,36 and when they approached in good faith we fired on them treacherously and so overcame them for the moment. Thus we continued, in stealth and trickery, lying shamelessly to the Imperial ambassadors when they besought us gently to repent our rebellion and return to our duty to you, the Son of Heaven who rules All Under the Skies. Pa-hsia-li lied, the Big Barbarian lied, we all lied, but now we see our error; we tremble under the just wrath of your servant, Prince Sang, who has chastised us; dismay and fear spread through our ranks, our soldiers run crying away, our evil leaders cannot control them. The Big Barbarian bites his nails and weeps in his tent; all our soldiers and sailors weep. We beg your Divine Forgiveness, kneeling, and acknowledge your supremacy, oh Son of Heaven. Be merciful, accept our homage, for we were misled by evil people.”
Well, I’ve talked greater rubbish in my time; he could have it signed and witnessed if he wanted. But even in my abject terror, kneeling almost in the blood of the wire jacket victim, with those madmen screaming at me, I couldn’t help wondering what mortal use they thought it would be. Within a week their precious Son of Heaven was going to be brought face to face with the Big Barbarian, who’d make him eat crow and like it; the despised Red-headed soldiers would march the sacred streets of the Forbidden City, and get drunk, and piss against his temple walls, and accost his women, and kick his mandarins’ backsides if they didn’t stir themselves. And since nothing in Heaven or earth could prevent that – and Sang and Sushun and Prince I knew it – what was the point of stuffing the Emperor’s ears with nonsense at the eleventh hour, when he’d learn the dreadful truth at the twelfth?
I still didn’t understand, you see, the blind arrogant stupidity of the Manchoo mind – that even if Elgin stood in the Emperor’s presence, his ministers would still pretend he wasn’t there at all; that they’d be whispering him just to wait, this foreign pig would be brought to book presently, and his army thrashed; that none of it was happening, because it couldn’t happen, Q.E.D. And in the meantime, here was a high-ranking British Officer to tell him the same tale, what more proof could His Majesty want?
They had me rehearsing it now, and you may be sure I howled it with a will, even throwing in corroborative detail of my own about how my family (including little golden-headed Amelia, of blessed memory) were held hostage by Elgin’s villains, to coerce me into rebellion against my better judgment. D’you know, they were delighted – I ain’t sure they didn’t believe it. Sang bellowed and kicked me with enthusiasm, and Prince I said coldly they had chosen well. Sushun spat on me to show his approval. Then:
“Strip the swine!” cried Sang, and the Bannermen cut my cords, tore off my clothes, gave me a rag of loin-cloth such as coolies wear, and replaced my bonds with ponderous steel fetters whose links must have been two inches thick. I now looked abject enough to satisfy them, but they kept my lancer tunic, belt, boots and spurs, to show their lord and master, and produced a ridiculous Oriental sword which would be laid at his Divine Feet during my speech to the throne. Then they left me for about an hour, half-dead with pain and fear and icy cold, mumbling over the farrago o
f drivel that I knew I would be repeating for my very life. But after that …
Suddenly it was on-stage with a vengeance, with the Bannermen hauling me out and along passages and up stairways, beating me with their spear-shafts while I laboured with the dead-weight of my chains. We passed through chambers where Chinese officials stared curiously, and uniformed Bannermen guarded the round crimson doorways; I remember a carpeted gallery crammed with porcelain statues of grotesque figures with enormous teeth and staring eyes; then they were driving me out across a polished marble floor like a frozen lake, reflecting a great hall as long and high as a church, with a bass gong booming hollowly in its emptiness. Huge vases, three times the height of a man, stood on either side of that cavernous apartment, which was lit by great lanterns with candles of perfumed wax; three-quarters of its length was only dimly-lighted, but at the far end, above three tiers of broad marble steps, was a dais on which was seated a golden figure, shining in the flames of the great candlebranches flanking his throne, a massive ebony contraption inlaid all over with mother-of-pearl. Robed figures, about a dozen of them, stood on the steps, to either side; there was Sang, and Prince I, and Sushun, but I had little chance to take ’em in, for my Bannermen flung me headlong, and I had to crawl the whole damned way, dragging those beastly irons, and staring at the reflection of the naked, bearded wretch in the glassy floor beneath me. Hollo, Flashy, old son, I thought, bellows to mend again, my boy, but you keep going and speak civil to the gentleman and you’ll get a sugar-plum at tea.
The gong had stopped, and the only sounds in that joss-laden silence were clanks and laboured breathing; I reached the steps, and under the Bannermen’s proddings dragged my way upwards, kow-towing all the way; thirty-three of them were there, and then I stopped, sprawled stark, with a pair of yellow velvet boots just ahead, and the hem of a robe that seemed to be made of solid gold inlaid with emeralds.
“He doesn’t look like a soldier,” said a drowsy voice. “Where is his armour? Why is he not wearing it?”
“Your slave, kneeling, begs Your Imperial Majesty to look on these rags of garments which the Red-headed savages wear.” This was Sang, and it was the first time I’d heard him speak at anything but the top of his voice. “They have no armour.”
“No armour?” says the other. “They must be very brave.”
That’s foxed you, you bastard, thinks I, but after a minute Sushun explained that we were so bloody backward we hadn’t thought of armour yet, and Sang cried aye, that was it.
“No armour,” says the drowsy voice, “yet they have great guns. That is not consistent. You – how is it that you have guns, but no armour?”
“Address the Son of Heaven, pig!” yells Sang, and the Bannermen bashed me with their spear-shafts. I scrambled to my knees, looked up – and blinked. For if the fellow on the throne wasn’t Basset, my orderly from the 11th Hussars, he was dooced like him, except that he was Chinese, you understand. It was just one of those odd resemblances – the same puffy, pasty, weak young face and little mouth, with a pathetic scrap of hair on the upper lip; but where Basset’s eyes had been weasel-sharp, this fellow’s were watery and dull. He looked as though he’d spent the last ten years in a brothel – which wasn’t far wrong.37 All this I took in at a glance, and then hastened to answer his question.
“Our guns, majesty,” says I, “were stolen from your imperial army.” At least that ought to please Sang, but with a face like his you couldn’t be sure.
“And your ships?” says the drowsy voice. “Your iron ships. How do you make such things?”
By George, this wasn’t going according to Sushun’s scenario at all. Here was I, all ready with a prepared statement, and this inquisitive oaf of an Emperor asking questions which I daren’t answer truthfully, or Sang would have my innards all over the yard.
“I know of no iron ships, majesty,” says I earnestly. “I think they are a lie. I have never seen them.”
“I have seen pictures,” says he sulkily, and thought for a moment, an unhappy frown on his soft yellow face. “You must have come to the Middle Kingdom in a ship – was it not of iron?” He looked ready to cry.
“It was a very old wooden ship, majesty,” says I. “Full of rats and leaked like a sieve. I didn’t want to come,” I cried on a sudden inspiration, “but I was seduced from my allegiance to your Divine Person by evil people like Pa-hsia-li and the Big Barbarian, you see, and they made me a Banner chief in the Red-headed Army and a trusted creature of the Big Barbarian himself, and …”
It was the only way I could get into Sushun’s speech and forestall further embarrassment; I poured it out, keeping my eyes lowered and knocking head obsequiously at intervals, and putting a heart-rending pathos into my final appeal for his Divine Forgiveness. If he’d then said, what about all these railways and telegraphs and the Crystal Palace, hey, I’d have been stumped, but he didn’t. Silence reigned, and when I stole a glance up at the Imperial Throne, damned if he hadn’t gone to sleep! Bored stiff, no doubt, but highly disconcerting when you’ve been pleading for your life, and Sang and Sushun glaring like Baptists at a Mass. None of ’em seemed to know what to do; the Son of Heaven smacked his lips, broke wind gently, and began to snore. There were whispered consultations, and finally one of them went off and returned with a stout little pug in a plain robe, who approached the throne, knocked head, and began to tickle the royal ankle.
The Emperor grunted, woke, stared around, and asked sleepily which tortoiseshell was turned over tonight.
“The Fragrant Almond Leopardess, oh Kwa-Kuin Ruling the World,” squeaks the stout party, and the Emperor pulled a face.
“No!” says he petulantly. “She is large and clumsy and without culture. She sings like a crow.” He sniggered, and Sang and the others, who’d been mirroring his disapproval, chuckled heartily. “Let it be the Orchid,” says the Emperor, sighing happily, and everyone beamed; I may even have nodded approbation myself, for he looked at me again, and frowned.
“I saw a picture of an iron ship with three great chimneys,” says he sadly, and then he got up unsteadily, and everyone dropped to their knees, crying: “There cannot be two suns in the heaven!” and knocked head vigorously. I watched him shuffle off, attended by the stout fellow; he walked like an old, sick man, for all he couldn’t have been thirty. The Solitary Prince, Son of Heaven, the most absolute monarch on earth, yearning for a trip on a steamship.
The fact remained that he hadn’t told ’em to give Flashy a pound from the till and a ticket to Tooting; I doubted if Sang would either, for while I’d done my damnedest to carry out his orders, I knew I hadn’t made much of a hit, and if he was displeased … my fears were realised as I was abruptly jerked to my feet, and that hateful voice was snarling at the Bannermen:
“Put him below! Tomorrow he can join the other barbarian curs in the Board of Punishments.”
My blood froze at the words, and as they seized my fetters I was foolish enough to protest. “But you swore to let me off! I said what you wanted, didn’t I? You said you’d spare me, you lying beast!”
He was on me like a tiger, striking viciously at my face while I cowered and yammered. “I said I would spare you the wire jacket!” he shouted, and fetched me a final clip that knocked me down. “So, I will spare you … the wire jacket! You may yet come to beg for it as a blessed release! Away with him!”
They hauled me off, and since I was in such fear that I woke the echoes with my roaring, they gagged me brutally before rushing me down a spiral stairway. It wasn’t the way we’d come, and I was expecting stone cells and dripping walls, but evidently they didn’t have such amenities in the Emperor’s private apartments, for the room they thrust me into seemed to be a furniture store, dry and musty, but clean enough, with chairs and tables piled against the walls. The swine made me as comfortable as possible, though, throwing me back down on a narrow wooden bench and shackling my wrists so tightly beneath it that I couldn’t budge an inch and must lie there supine with my legs trail
ing on the floor either side. Then they left me, a prey to the most horrid imaginings, and unable even to whine and curse by reason of my gag.
The Board of Punishments … I’d heard of it, and horrid rumours of what happened there – if I’d known what Parkes and Loch and the others were already suffering, I’d have gone off my head. Mercifully, I didn’t know, and strove to drive the awful fears out of my mind, telling myself that the army was only a few miles away, that even mad monsters like Sang must realise the vengeance that Elgin would take if we were ill-treated, and hold his hand … and then I remembered Moyes and Nolan, and the vicious, mindless spite with which they’d been murdered, and I knew that my only hope was that rescue would get here in time. They were so close! Grant and the Frogs and Probyn and Nuxban Khan and Wolseley and Temple, those splendid Sikhs and Afghans and Royals; I could weep to think of them in their safe, strong, familiar world, loafing under the canvas, sitting about on Payne & Co’s boxes, reading the Daily Press, chewing the rag about … what had it been, that evening a century ago, before we rode to Tang-chao … oh, aye, the military steeplechase at Northampton, won by a Dragoon over twenty fences and three ploughs, and spectators riding alongside had spoiled sport … “Goin’ to ride next year, Flash?” “Garn, he’s top-heavy!” “They say the Navy are enterin’ in ’61 – sailors on horseback, haw-haw!” That’s how they’d be gassing and boozing and idling away precious time, the selfish bastards, while I was bound shivering and naked and near-demented with fear of what lay ahead …
The Flashman Papers: The Complete 12-Book Collection Page 358