Flashman Papers 3-Book Collection 4: Flashman and the Dragon, Flashman on the March, Flashman and the Tiger. George Fraser MacDonald

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СКАЧАТЬ misheard, or if he was speaking symbolically or even with irony. But he wasn’t. He went on, conversationally:

      “It is a gratifying demonstration of the ordained equality of the sexes in the Heavenly Kingdom that the Heavenly King’s consort enters so fully on his affairs. It was she, you know, who received the divine command that henceforth the Tien Wang should devote himself to meditation – apart from such duties as annotating the Book of Revelation – so that he may be fully prepared to take his place with the Junior Lord, his son, in Paradise, and sit with God and the Elder Brother.”

      “I see”, seemed the best response with which to cover my sheer amazement and alarm. Until now, this apparently normal young man had spoken sanely and rationally, and here, suddenly, without a gleam in his eye or foam on his lips, he was talking the most outrageous balderdash. I knew that from all accounts the Heavenly King was as mad as a senile Sapper, but this was one of his foremost generals! Could he conceivably believe this bilge about dragon chariots and tête-à-têtes with the Almighty, with Mrs Heavenly King going along, presumably to help with the service of tea and ginger biscuits?

      Hesitantly, and in the hope of receiving an answer that would restore my faith in Lee’s sanity, I inquired how old his Heavenly Majesty might be, and when he could be expected to go aloft permanently, so to speak. I was a fool to ask.

      “In earthly terms,” says Lee placidly, “he is forty-seven, but in fact he was born out of the belly of God’s first wife before Heaven and Earth existed. How else could he have observed all the events of the Old Testament, and Jesus Christ’s descent to earth, before deciding to manifest himself in 1813? As to when he will sit with the Heavenly Family permanently, and shine on all lands and oceans, we cannot tell. The Heavenly South Gate will open one day; in the meantime, we must all fight valiantly for eternal glory.”

      “There’s no doubt of that,” says I. Was he having me on? Or did he simply repeat this moonshine because it wasn’t safe to do otherwise? It’s hard enough to read a Chinaman’s thoughts, but I had a horrible feeling he meant every word of it. Dear God, were they all non compos mentis?¹³

      He left me with these uncomfortable thoughts, in a small outer palace, with an escorting officer, while he went in to the Wang council, and no doubt to hear an account of what they’d had for luncheon in Heaven yesterday. Nor did my surroundings do anything to quiet my fears; we were in a fairly filthy audience chamber, decorated with the crudest kind of drawings, gilded lanterns, and tatty flags and bunting, presided over by a grinning young imbecile who was plainly far gone with opium – which I, remembering that it was a capital offence, thought odd until I learned that he was the acting Prime Minister, “the Son of the Prince of Praise”. He wore a filthy silk robe and a big embroidered dragon hat with a little bird on top, and was surrounded by officials; there was also a half-company of troops posted round the hall – filthy, slovenly brutes quite unlike the smart Taipings of Lee’s camp.

      My guiding officer presented me to this beauty, who giggled vacantly, invited me in a slurred, stuttering voice to pass into the dining-room next door, apologised for having no strong drink to offer me, and at the same time reached under his table and handed me out a bottle of London gin. I declined courteously, and passed the time studying a great wall map of the world – or rather, of “The Entire Territory of the Heavenly Kingdom to Endure for a Myriad Myriad Years”. It showed China as a perfect square, with Nanking in the middle, but no sign of Pekin; Japan was a speck, Britain and France small blobs in the top corner, and a smear to one side proved to be the State of the Flowery Flag, or U.S.A. to you. The rest of the world had apparently been suppressed by heavenly decree. (We are the Red-haired State, by the way, and according to a scroll beside the map which my guide translated, we are the most powerful country apart from China, on account of our correct methods, shrewdness, dishonesty, and refusal to be subjugated.)

      There was a great inner arch from the chamber, and through it, across an open court, could be glimpsed the gateway to the Inner Palace, with “Sacred Heavenly Door” inscribed above, and two enormous painted dragons, one eating the sun and the other pursuing a shrimp. I was pondering the mystical meaning of this when a most unholy din broke out from the Inner Palace – guns firing, drums rolling, cymbals clashing – and across the courtyard passed a procession of women bearing steaming golden dishes (bad pork and cabbage, by the odour) in at the Sacred Heavenly Door. This, says my escort, was the signal that the Heavenly King was going to dinner, drawn by women in his Dragon Chariot; the guns and drums would continue until he had finished. I asked if we could go in for a peep, and he looked shocked.

      “Only the thousand women attending His Heavenly Majesty are permitted in the Inner Palace,” says he. “The presence of men – except for the Wangs and certain great ones – would disturb his constant labour of writing decrees, revising the Scriptures, and conceiving new precepts. If we are privileged, we may presently hear the result of his morning’s meditation.”

      Sure enough, he’d barely finished speaking when trumpets blared from the Inner Palace gateway, and across the court came the most stunning Chinese girl, all in green silk and carrying a golden tray with a yellow silk scroll.

      “The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees!” cries my chap eagerly, and he and every soul in our audience chamber dropped to his knees yelling “Ten thousand Years! Ten thousand Years!”, the only exceptions being the ignorant foreigner Flashy, who stood admiring the approaching beauty, and the deputy Prime Minister, who fell flat on his face and was sick.

      The Bearer of Heavenly Decrees sashayed in like the Queen of Sheba, unrolled her scroll, glanced round superciliously (with a brief frown at the leering barbarian), and in a high sing-song voice read out the Heavenly King’s last thought before luncheon: it was a decree announcing that since his birthday fell next week (renewed yells of “Ten thousand Years!”) all the Senior Wangs might take another ten wives in addition to the eleven they had already, while Lesser Wangs would have their ration increased from six to nine. The public (who had one wife if they were lucky) were not mentioned.

      Thunderous applause greeted this announcement (though what they had to cheer about wasn’t clear to me), and the Bearer of Heavenly Decrees handed her scroll to a grovelling minion, smiled graciously, shot me another reproving look, and made her stately way back to the palace, twitching her shimmering rump as she went. Observing this, and reflecting on the new decree, which all present were hailing with enthusiasm, I made a mental salute to the Taiping Rebellion – like all revolutionary movements (and for that matter all governments) it was plainly designed to ensure the rulers an abundance of fleshpot, while convincing the ruled that austerity was good for the soul. But barring the Papists, I couldn’t think of a regime that had the business so nicely in hand as this one.¹⁴

      Needless to say, I kept the thought to myself, although I couldn’t resist trying to draw Lee gently when he came to bear me off to dinner at his own palace, apologising that it wasn’t completed yet, in spite of the efforts of a thousand coolies who were slaving like beavers on it. I remarked that it was a fine system where the workers were content to live like pigs while providing their rulers with luxury – and not getting a penny piece for it. He just shrugged, and says: “You English believe in paying for work. We know better – are we not a great empire?” It wasn’t even cynical, just a plain philosophy, like his apparently sincere religious lunacy, and left me wondering harder than ever about him.

      His was a modest enough spread, a mere gold and white bijou residence set in two or three acres of magnificent garden, with fantastically-dressed boys and girls swarming round us like gilded butterflies and ushering us to a charming little pavilion surrounded by a miniature rock and tree garden. Here a tiny child in yellow silk was waiting on the steps, and I was taken right aback when he bowed, held out a hand to me, and says in perfect English: “Good afternoon, СКАЧАТЬ