Читать книгу Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 4: Flashman and the Dragon, Flashman on the March, Flashman and the Tiger - George Fraser MacDonald - Страница 20

Dazzled, all I could make out at first was a short, stout figure carrying someone – a child, by the look of it. Then the lantern was placed on a cupboard, so that it shone down on me, and as they advanced into the room I saw that the bearer was the portly cove who’d scratched the Emperor’s foot in the Hall of Audience; his burden was wrapped in a scarlet silk cloak with a hood keeping the face in shadow.

“Well!” hisses the eunuch. “There it is – I hope you’re satisfied! Risking our lives just to gape at that monster – to say nothing of the scandal if it were known that the Empress of the Western Palace was sneaking about –”

“Oh, shut up, pudding,” says she in that silvery chuckle. “And put me down.”

“No! We’re going – we must, before –”

“Put me down! And close the door.”

He gave a hysterical whimper and obeyed, and she circled the bench none too steadily, giggling and clutching the cloak tightly under her chin. She craned foward to look at me, and the light fell on the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen in my life.

I’ve said that of three women, and still do – Elspeth, Lola Montez … and Yehonala Tzu-hsi, the Orchid, the incomparable Yi Concubine. And it’s true of each in her own way: fair Elspeth, dark Lola … and Yehonala was the Orient, in all its pearly delicacy of flowerlike skin, lustrous black eyes, slender little nose, cherry mouth with the full lower lip, tiny even teeth, all in a perfect oval face; add that her hair was blue-black, coiled in the Manchoo style – and you ain’t much wiser, for there are no words to describe that pure loveliness. Who could have guessed that it masked a nature compounded of all the seven deadly sins except envy and sloth? But even when you knew it, it didn’t matter one damned bit, with that breath-taking beauty. She said it herself: “I can make people hate me – or love me with blind worship. I have that power.”

All I knew then, as she surveyed me, swaying and tittering excitedly, was that I’d never seen the like, and I can pay the little heart-stopper no higher tribute than to say that my first wish was that I had my uniform and a shave – being flat on your back, gagged and bound in a filthy loin-cloth, cramps the style no end. My second thought was that whoever had painted her mouth purple and her eyelids silver, with devil’s streaks slanting up the brows, had done her no service – and then I noticed that the black pupils were shrunk to pin-points, and the perfect lips were loosely open. She was rollicking drunk on opium. Her first words confirmed it, I’d say.

“Ughh! He’s … disgusting. Not human! Look at the hair on his chest – like an ape!” She shivered deliciously. “Are they all like this?”

“What did you expect?” pipes An fearfully. “I told you, but you wouldn’t listen! Yes, they’re all like that – some are even worse. Revolting. Now, please, come away –”

“They can’t be uglier than this! See his dreadful great nose – like a vulture’s beak! And his ears! And his hair!” She gurgled hysterically, and the lovely face came closer, wrinkling delicately. “He smells, too – ugh!”

“They all smell! Like sour pork! Oh, Orchid Lady, why do you wait, staring at the beastly thing! He’s a barbarian! Very well, you’ve seen him! And unless we make haste –”

“Be quiet! I want to look at him … he’s grotesque! Those huge shoulders … and his skin!” She put out a slim white hand, whose silver nails were two-inch talons, and brushed my chest with her finger-tips. “It’s like ox-hide – feel!” She squeaked with delight.

“I’ll do no such thing! And neither will you – stop it, I say! Eegh! To touch that foulness – how can you bear it? Oh, Orchid, mistress, I beg you, come before anyone finds us!”

“But his arms and legs, An – they’re enormous! Like an elephant. He must,” says she, all tipsy solemnity, “be terribly strong … strong as a bull, wouldn’t you think?”

“Yes, as a bull – and quite as interesting! Imperial Concubine Yi, this is not fitting! Please, I implore you – let us go quickly!”

“In a moment, stupid! I’m still looking at him …” She took an unsteady pace back, head on one side. “He’s an absolute monster …” She giggled again, her knuckles to her lips. “I wonder …”

“What! What do you wonder? Eh? Aha! I know what you wonder! Oh, vile! Shameless! Come away this instant! No, no –”

“I just want to look, fool! You wouldn’t care if it was a horse, or … or a monkey, would you? Well, he’s just a barbarian …” And before he could stop her she had swayed forward, laughing, and yanked at my loin-cloth; there was a rending sound, Little An screamed, averted his eyes, tried to drag her away, succeeded in pulling the cloak from her shoulders – and while her ladyship, oblivious, blinked in drunken contemplation, I returned the scrutiny with interest; in fact, I near swallowed my gag.

I should explain that she had looked in while returning from duty in the Emperor’s bed, and consequently was still in uniform. Or rather, out of it – and his majesty’s tastes were curious. She was dressed in enormous wings of peacock feathers, attached from shoulder to wrist, and high-soled Manchoo slippers from which silver cross-garters wound up to above her knees. The effect was striking; she was one of your slim, perfectly-shaped, high-breasted figures, with skin like alabaster – as I said, I never saw the like. She would have made a stone idol squeal.

“Put it back! Stop it! Don’t look!” Little An was in a frenzy, dropping to his knees beside her, pawing distraught. “For pity’s sake, Orchid Lady! Please, come away quickly, before … oh, Gods! What are you doing?”

It was a question which, had I not been gagged, I might well have echoed – rhetorically, since there was no doubt what she was doing, the wicked, insolent little flirt. She had detached a plume from her peacock wing and was tickling lasciviously, humming what I took to be an old Chinese lullaby and going into delighted peals at the visible result of her handiwork.

“Oh, buffalo!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands, while Little An stared in horror and absolutely beat his forehead with his fists, and the hapless victim struggled helplessly, distracted and outraged – for I have my dignity, dammit, and I bar being unbreeched and assailed by opium-sodden houris, however bewitching, without even a by-your-leave.

“Oh, horrible! Impossible!” Little An fairly gibbered. “Oh, lady – dear Orchid, please come away! See, I lie at your feet, I beg, I beseech – stop, stop! If someone should find us –”

“That would be unlucky – for them.” She stopped tickling, and laid hold. “Oh-h! Little An,” says she breathlessly, “go outside … and guard the door.”

He gave a frenzied neigh. “What will you do?” he squealed, which was as foolish a question as ever I heard, considering my condition and her behaviour. “No! I forbid it! You cannot! It is sacrilege, blasphemy – awful! It is improper –”

“Do you want to be alive tomorrow, Little An?” The voice was as musically soft as ever, but there was a note in it to bristle your hair. “Go out, keep watch … and wait till I call. Now.”

He gave a last despairing wail and fled, and she teased fondly for a moment, breathing hard, and then leaned over to look into my face, possibly to make sure I wasn’t going to sleep. Dear God, but she was lovely; the purple mouth was wide, panting violet-scented breaths, the black eyes were glittering as she laughed and called softly:

“Oh, An – he is so ugly! I can’t bear to look at him!”

“Then don’t!” His piping came faintly through the door. “Don’t look! Don’t do anything! Don’t touch it – him! Remember who you are, you bad, lascivious wretch – you’re the Imperial Concubine Yi, beloved of the Complete Abundance, mother of his only child, Moon to the Heavenly Sun! Here – are you listening?”

“What did you say about complete abundance?” chuckled the drunken hussy, and dropped her silk cloak over my face, to cut off her view, no doubt, damn her impudence. Her hands gripped my chest as she swung nimbly astride, her knees either side of my hips; for a moment she was upright, playing and fondling while I lay fit to burst, and then with a long shuddering sigh she sank slowly down, impaling herself, gliding up and down with maddening deliberation, and what could I do but close my eyes and think of England?

An said afterwards that it was incredible, and but for the gag I’d have cried “Hear, hear!”, supposing I’d had breath to do it. But while I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, it was deuced unnerving – being ravished is all very well, especially by the most accomplished wanton in China, if not all Asia, but when you’re utterly helpless, and she has finally worked her wicked will and lain sated and moaning drunkenly on your manly chest, only to draw away suddenly with a cry of “Ugh, how he stinks!”, and then plucks away the cloak for another look and shudder at you … well, you’re bound to wonder about the future, if you follow me.

Little An had it all settled, rot him. When she called, he waddled in, sulking furiously, and said that if she’d quite finished behaving like a rutting sow he would carry her to bed, and then slit the barbarian’s tongue so that the disgusting brute couldn’t blab when they took him to the Board of Punishments. I listened in cold horror, but she reclined gracefully in a chair and says yawning:

“Blood-thirsty little pig, you’ll leave his tongue alone – and the rest of him …” She stretched luxuriously. “Oh, An! Do you know what it’s like when your whole body melts in such ecstasy that you feel you’ll die of bliss? No, of course you don’t. But I do … now. I thought Jung was wonderful, but … oh, Jung was just a boy! This was like … who was that ancient god who used to rape everyone? It doesn’t matter.” She waved a languid wing in my direction. “Carry me upstairs … and have him taken to the Wang-shaw-ewen. Put him in –”

“Are you mad? Has lechery disordered your wits? What the devil is he to do in the Wang-shaw-ewen?”

“Die a happy barbarian,” purrs madam. “Eventually. Unless I tire of him first … which is unimaginable.” She sighed happily. “Of course, all that horrid hair must be shaved from his body, and he must be bathed in musk for that awful odour, and dressed decently –”

“You are mad! Take that … that thing to your own pavilion!” He gargled and waved his arms. “And when the Emperor hears of it, or Prince Kung – or your enemies, Sang and Sushun and the Tsai Yuan –”

“Oh, don’t be silly! Who would be so brave – or foolish – as to tell on the Concubine Yi? Even you aren’t so stupid … are you, Little An?” Just for a second the silvery voice hardened on that chilly note, and then she had risen, staggered, giggled, and broken into a little-girl sing-song: “I’m hungry, An! Yes, I am, An! And I want some pickles, An, and roast pork, and cherries, and lots of crackling, and sugared lotus seeds, and a cup of honeysuckle tea … and then sleep, sleep, sleep …” She leaned against him, murmuring.

“But … but … oh, it’s the infernal black smoke! It makes you mad, and irresponsible … and … and naughty! You don’t know what you’re saying or doing! Please, dear Orchid Lady, little Empress, listen to reason! You’ve enjoyed the beastly fellow – ugh! – isn’t it enough? You say no one would tell – but how if the Emperor came to your pavilion and found that … that creature –”

“The Emperor,” says she drowsily, “will never get out of his bed again. Why should he, when I’m always in it? But if he did, and caught me with twenty barbarians … d’you know what? He’d forgive me.” She brushed a wing playfully across his face. “If you were a man, Little An, you’d know why. My barbarian knows why!” She pushed away from him, laughing, and skipped unsteadily to my bench, beating her wings. “Oh, yes, he knows why! Don’t you, my ugly, hairy barbarian – so ugly, except for the happy part … See? Oh, An, I’m so happy!”

“Stop it! Stop it at once, I say!” He pulled her away; he was nearly in tears. “I won’t have it, d’you hear! It’s not decent – you, a great Manchoo lady – how can you think of that animal –”

“Oh, leave me alone – look, you’ve torn my wing!” The lovely mouth pouted as she smoothed her feathers. “You’ll make me angry in a minute, Little An – I should have you beaten for that – yes, I will, you blubbery little ape –”

“Have me beaten, then!” he squealed, in sudden passion. “Beat me for a torn wing – and what of your torn honour? You, Yehonala, daughter of a knight of the Banner Corps, mother of Tungchi, the seed of Heaven, to forget your loyalty to the Emperor! You indulge your wicked lust with this peasant savage – you, whose life’s duty is the solace and comfort of the Solitary Prince! Shame on you! I’ll have no part in it, and you can beat or kill me if you like!” He finished on a fine fearful flourish. “It’s not good enough!”

I’ve taken part in some damned odd scenes in my time, but I imagine a visitor to that room just then would have agreed that the present spectacle was unique. There we were among the furniture and dust-sheets: on my left, in brown robe and pill-box hat, twenty diminutive stone of blubber shrilling like a steam whistle; on my right, topping him by a head in her pearl-fringed block shoes, that incredible ivory beauty, her nudity only enhanced by the ridiculous trailing peacock wings and silver garters; they faced each other across the supine form of the pride of the 17th Lancers, trussed, gagged, and stark as a picked bone, but following the debate with rapt attention. My admiration, if not my sympathy, was all with Little An, as I looked at that lovely, silver-painted mask of a face beneath the coiled raven hair: suddenly it was wiped clean of drugged laughter, and the cold implacability that looked out of it was frightening. I even left off staring at those excellent jutting tits, which goes to show. I’d not have faced her for a fortune, but when she spoke it was in the same soft, bell-like tone.

“Eunuch An-te-hai,” says she, and negligently indicated her feet – and the poor little tub came waddling and sank down like a burst bladder. She touched his cheek gently with a silver talon, and he turned up his trembling pug face.

“Poor Little An, you know I always get my way, don’t you?” It was like a caress. “And you always obey, because I am your little orchid whom you have loved since I came here long ago, a frightened little girl to whom you were kind. Remember the watermelon seeds and walnuts, and how you consoled me when my heart was breaking for the boy I loved, and how you shielded me from the anger of the Dowager when I broke her best gold cup and you took the blame, and how you whispered comfort when first you wrapped me in the scarlet cloak and took me to the Emperor’s bed, trembling and in tears? ‘Be brave, little empress – you will be a real empress some day’. Have you forgotten, Little An? I never shall.”

He was leaking like the Drinking Fountain Movement by now, and no wonder. I was starting to feel horny for her again myself.

“Now, because I love you, too, and need you, Little An, I shall be honest with you – as I always am.” The silvery voice was sober as a judge’s now. “I want this barbarian, for what you call my wicked lust … no, no, it’s true. And why not, if it pleases me? You talk of honour, loyalty to the Emperor – what loyalty do I owe to that debauched pervert? You know I’m not a woman to him, but a pretty painted toy trained to pander to his filthy vices – what honour is there in that? You know, and pity me – and used to arrange those secret trysts with Jung, the man I loved. Where was my honour then?”

“Jung Lu was a noble, a Manchoo, a Banner Chief who would have married you if he could,” he whimpered, pawing her feet. “Oh, please, Orchid, I seek only your good – this thing is a barbarian brute –”

“But if I want him, Little An, mayn’t I have him … please? He is just a little pleasure … a watermelon seed. And he may have another use; you should know of it … and of other things, which it will soon be time to tell you.” She paused, head lifting. “Yes … why not now? This is a good secret place, away from big ears. Go – see that all is safe.”

He hopped up, all alarm, popped his head out, and came back nodding nervously. She sat down, motioning him to kneel close, and stroked his fat cheek playfully. “Don’t be frightened, small jelly. Just listen.” She began to talk, quite unaware that the big ears of the barbarian melonseed were understanding every word.

“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 building, 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.

It had taken centuries to make, and if all the great artists of the Classical Age and the Renaissance had seen it, they’d have agreed that the fellows who designed it (for design, of course, was its secret and its glory) knew their business. Being a Philistine, I will add only: never talk to me about Art or Beauty or Good Taste or Style, because I’ve seen the bloody elephant.

I say it was a vast garden, but in fact it was many. The main one was the Ewen-ming-ewen, the Enclosed and Beautiful Garden, a great walled park with palaces which were museums of all Chinese art and civilisation, accumulated through the ages; then there was the Chingming-ewen, the Golden and Brilliant Garden, with its hills crowned by a six-storey jade tower and a magnificently ruined lamasery, and the Fragrant Hills, the Jade Fountain Park, the Imperial Hunting Park, the Garden of Clear Rippling Water, and the one to which I was taken, the Wang-shaw-ewen, or Birthday Garden, which was reckoned the most perfect of all, with its views of the whole shooting-match, and beyond that distant Pekin, and the surrounding hills.³⁸

This miracle was all for the personal delight of the Emperor and his court; no other visitors ever saw it, which was perhaps as well, since I should think it was by far the richest treasure house there has ever been in the world. To give you a notion, Yehonala’s favourite pavilion was a modest cabin covering about an acre, roofed with gold leaf and apparently constructed of marble, jade, and ivory throughout; its scores of rooms were stuffed with priceless fabrics, carpets, and furs, statuary of every precious metal and porcelain, clocks, jewellery, paintings – I remember going along a verandah, looking out at the glorious scenery, and suddenly realising that I was no longer out of doors, but was staring at a wall so cunningly decorated that it appeared to be a continuation of the world outside; I had walked a good ten paces before I discovered that I was no longer seeing reality, but artifice, and when I went back and stood at gaze, I could hardly tell where one ended and t’other began. It was almost sickening to think of the genius and labour that had gone to the making of such a vain thing – yet it was lovely, and as to the movable loot … well, an entire wing was devoted to thousands of magnificent silk dresses, scarves, and shawls; you absolutely waded through them; another wing was given over to jewelled ornaments so brilliant and numerous that the eye could not bear to look at them for long; one vast room was filled with the most intricate mechanical toys crusted with gems, jade jack-in-the-boxes, walking dolls, blasted diamond frogs and beetles hopping and scuttling all over the shop, and you’d no sooner escaped them than you were in a room walled in solid silver and carpeted in ermine and sable, with gold racks covered in – ladies’ shoes.³⁹

That was Yehonala’s house – and there were hundreds like it, palaces, temples, museums, art galleries, libraries, summer houses, and pavilions, all crammed with treasures so opulent that … why, if those Russian Easter eggs that are so admired had found their way into the Summer Palace, I swear they’d have boiled ’em. God knows what it was all worth – or what it was all for. Greed? Vanity? An attempt to create a luxurious paradise on earth, so that the earth could be forgotten? If the last, then it succeeded, for you forgot the world in an instant. It should have seemed just a great, overstuffed bazaar – but it didn’t, probably because of this last detail which I shall tell you, and then I’m done with description: every one of the millions of precious things in the Summer Palace, from the forty-foot jade vases in the Hall of Audience, so fragile that you could read print through them, to the tiny gold thimble on a corner shelf in the room of Yehonala’s chief seamstress, was labelled with its description, origin, and the exact position which it must occupy in the room. Think of that the next time you drop a book on the table.

Possibly because of recent events, and my new surroundings, my memories of the first two days in that house are all at random. I saw no one but the eunuchs, whose first task was to groom the barbarian and make him fit for human consumption; Little An was early on the scene, scowling sullenly and instructing the lads to see me shaved, scrubbed, and suitably attired – I had to be careful not to understand the shrill directions screamed at me, and to appear to cotton on slowly. I insisted on bathing and shaving myself, and recall sitting in a splendid marble bathing pool, using a jewelled razor on my chest, arms, and legs, and damning (in English) the eyes of the bollockless brigade as they twittered round the brink pouring in the salts and oils to make me smell Chinese. I had a splendid shouting-match with An on the subject of my moustache and whiskers, which he indicated must come off, and which I by Saxon oath and gesture showed I was ready to defend to the last. Finally I removed them – the first time I’d been clean-shaven since I rode as a bronco Apache in Mangus Colorado’s spring war party back in ’50 – but dug in my heels about my top-hair; I’d been bald, when I was Crown Prince of Strackenz, and looked hellish. (Gad, I’ve suffered in my time.)

Another memory is of sleeping in silk sheets on a bed so soft I had to climb out and camp on the floor. I suppose I ate, and loafed, but it’s fairly hazy until the second night, when they took me in a closed sedan chair to the Imperial apartments in the Ewen-ming-ewen.

This was a piece of pure effrontery on Yehonala’s part, and showed not only her supreme confidence in her power, but the extent of that power, and the fear she inspired among the minions of the Imperial court. The Emperor was down in the Forbidden City still, with all his retinue of nobles and attendants, while the Concubine Yi lorded it in the Summer Palace alone – but instead of conducting her illicit amours secretly in her own pavilion, damn if she didn’t appropriate his majesty’s private apartments, serenely sure that not one of the eunuchs or guards or palace servants would dare to betray her. Little An’s spy system was so perfect that I doubt if an informer could have got near the Emperor or any of her enemies, but probably her best security was that almost the whole court worshipped the ground she trod on. “I have that power,” remember.

I had no inkling of this when they decanted me at the third of the great halls that made up the Emperor’s residence, and led me through a circular side-door to a small dressing-room hung with quilted dragon robes in every conceivable colour – it was just like her, you know, to fig me out in her old man’s best gear, although I had no suspicion of what was afoot until Little An began puffing musk at me from a giant squirt, and his assistant applied lacquer to my hair to make it lie down. When they tied a flimsy gauze mask over my face, I thought aha!, and then they bundled me into a corridor and along to a great gilt door where a table stood bearing scores of tortoiseshell plaques, each with a different design worked in precious stones. These were the concubines’ tablets, with which his majesty indicated his choice for the night; it was then Little An’s task to rout out the appropriate houri, wrap her in the silk cloak, carry her to the gilt door, and shoot her in, no doubt with a cry of “Shop!”

He didn’t attempt to carry me, just waved me in and closed the door after me. And through the thin mask I saw enough to confirm my growing suspicions.

Directly ahead of me there was a sort of sloping ramp which led up to an alcove entirely filled by a bed large enough to accommodate the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry and a couple of signallers; it was sheeted in purple silk with gold lamé pillows in case anyone wanted to sleep. To the left of the ramp were low ebony tables covered with the kind of bric-a-bric that Susie Willinck had insisted on taking to California, only more expensive: silver opium pipes and skewers, delicate golden chains and fetters, cords of silk and velvet and plaited leather, a tiny cat-o’-nine-tails with minute gems glinting in its lashes, and a scattering of exquisitely-tinted pictures which they wouldn’t have shown at the Royal Academy in a hurry. Hang it, this ain’t the billiard room, thinks I, and glanced to my right – and forgot everything else.

Yehonala was sitting on a low stool, dabbing her lower lip with a little brush before a dressing-table mirror. She was wearing a robe of some gauzy, shimmering material that changed colour with every movement – a wasted effect, since it was entirely transparent. But it wasn’t only the sudden vision of that flawless ivory body that set me gulping and gloating as I surveyed the slender foot and ankle, the slim tapering legs, the smooth curve of belly and rump, the tiny waist, and the splendid conical breasts standing clear of the robe – well, you can see it wasn’t … it was that perfect face in the mirror, so arrestingly lovely that you couldn’t believe it was flesh and blood, and not a picture of some impossible ideal. She glanced at my reflection in the mirror, cool up-and-down.

“You look much better in a mask,” says she idly, as she might have addressed her pet Pekingese, pouting her lip to examine it in the glass. “Go to the bed, then, and wait.” I didn’t move, and remembering that I was an uncomprehending barbarian she pointed with a silver finger-nail, flicking her hand impatiently. “To the bed – there! Go on!”

If there’s one thing that can make me randier than a badger it’s an imperious little dolly-mop giving me orders with her tits out of her dress. “Don’t you believe it, my lass!” growls I in English, and she stopped, brush poised, eyes wide in astonishment – I reckon it was a shock to her to hear the noise the animal made. She gasped as I pulled off my mask, and for an instant there was fear in the dark eyes, so I smiled politely, made her my best bow, and came up behind her stool. Her face set in anger, but before she could speak I had applied the fond caress that I use to coax Elspeth when she’s sulking – one hand beneath the chin to pull her head back while you chew her mouth open, the other kneading her bouncers with passionate ardour. They can’t stir, you see, and after a moment they don’t want to. Sure enough, she stiffened and tried to struggle, writhing on the stool with smothered noises … and then she began to tremble, her mouth opened under mine, and as I worked away feverishly at her poonts her hands reached up to clasp behind my head. I disengaged instantly, dropped to one knee by her stool, smiled tenderly into the beautiful bewildered face, squeezed her belly fondly, stole a quick kiss on each tit, and swept her up in my arms as I rose.

“Wait … put me down … no, let me go … wait …” But having no Chinese I strode masterfully up the ramp, whistling “Lilliburlero” to soothe her, dropped her head and shoulders on the edge of the bed while holding the rest of her clear with a hand under either buttock, leaned forward in the approved firing position, and piled in, roaring like a Gorgon. I believe she was quite taken aback, for she gave one uncertain wail, gesturing feebly with those dear little white hands, but I’d arranged her artfully in a helpless position, hanging suspended while wicked Harry bulled away mercilessly with his feet on the ground, and what was the poor child to do? I was fairly certain, from the look of the Emperor’s bedside tackle, and what I’d heard her tell Little An about Reluctant Shrimps or Galloping Lobsters or whatever it was, that she had never been romped in normal, true British style in her life, but you could see her taking to it, and by the time my knees began to creak – for I spun the business out to the ecstatic uttermost for her benefit – she was in a condition of swoon, as I once heard a French naval officer put it. I was quite breathless myself, and blissfully content, but I knew that wouldn’t be the end of it.

She fulfilled, you see, four of the five conditions necessary for what may be called the Australian Ideal – she was an immensely rich, stunningly beautiful, highly-skilled professional amorist with the sexual appetite of a pagan priestess; she did not own a public house. And having spent ten years entertaining a depraved idiot of unspeakable tastes, she was now determined to make the most of Flashy while he lasted, which was until about noon next day, so far as I could judge, and if Little An had offered to carry me away I’d have held out my arms, whimpering weakly. Mind you, it was partly my own fault for being such a susceptible romantic. For it wasn’t only her beauty, or passion, or matchless skill in the noble art that were nearly the death of me; it was her pure irresistible charm. When I was ruined beyond redemption, face down and fagged out, thinking, aye well, it’s been not a bad life, and who’d ha’ thought it would end on the Emperor of China’s mattress, in the Chamber of Divine Repose (ha!) on the morning of September 25, 1860? … then that perfumed musical whisper would be in my ear, and I’d turn feebly to meet that angelic face with its little smile that pierced me through, and such a wave of sentimental affection would come over me, and a great longing to lock her in my heart forever, and … well, somehow, before I knew it, it was boots and saddles again.