I was fool enough to be mildly pleased at spotting the item—Fat and Lin regarded me with awe for days—but I wasn't much interested, having discovered far more important matter in the secret files, which enabled me to bring off a splendid coup, thus:
It appeared that Countess H , wife of a senior attaché at the Russian mission, paid weekly visits to a Chinese hairdresser, and, under the pretext of being beautified, regularly entertained four(!) stalwart Manchoo Bannermen in a room above the shop, later driving home with a new coiffure and a smug expression.
[Official conclusion by Fat and Lin: the subject is vulnerable, and may be coerced if access should be required to her husband's papers. Action: none.]
[Unofficial conclusion by Flashy: the subject is a slim, vicious-looking piece who smokes brown cigarettes and drinks like a fish at diplomatic bunfights, but has hitherto been invulnerable by reason of her chilly disdain. Action: advise subject by anonymous note that if she doesn't change her hairdresser, her husband will learn something to her disadvantage. Supply her with address of alternative establishment, and arrange to drop in during her appointments.]
So you see, you can't overestimate the importance of good intelligence work. Fascinating woman; d'you know, she smoked those damned brown cigarettes all the time, even when … And kept a tumbler of vodka on the bedside table. But I digress. Bruce was preparing his bombshell, and it was on my return from an exhausting afternoon at the hairdresser's that he in-formed me, out of the blue, that he was sending me to Nanking.
There was a time when the notion of intruding on the mutual slaughter of millions of Chinese would have had me squawking like an agitated hen, but I knew better now. I nodded judiciously, while my face went crimson (which it does out of sheer funk, often mistaken for rage and resolution) and my liver turned its accustomed white. Aloud I wondered, frowning, if I were the best man to send … a clever Chinese might do it better … one didn't know how long it would take … have to be on hand when Elgin arrived … might our policy not be compromised if a senior British officer were seen near rebel headquarters … strict neutrality … of course, Bruce knew best …
"It can't be helped," says he briskly. "It would be folly not to employ your special talents in this emergency. The battle is fully joined before Nanking, and there's no doubt the Taipings will crush the Imps utterly in the Yangtse valley, which will alter the whole balance in China; at a stroke the rebels become masters of everything between Kwangsi and the Yellow Sea." He swept his hand across the southern half of China on his wall map.
"I said some weeks ago that a time might come when we must talk to the Taipings," says he, and for once the cherub face was set and heavy. "Well, it is now. After this battle, Lee's hands will be free, and it's my belief that he will march on Shanghai. If he does, then we and France and America and Russia can ignore the Taipings no longer; we'll be bound to choose once and for all between them and the Manchoos." He rubbed a hand across his jaw. "And that's a perilous choice. We've avoided it for ten years, and I'm damned if I want to see it made now, in haste."
I said nothing; I was too busy recalling, with my innards dissolving, that at the last great battle for Nanking, when the Taipings took it in '53, the carnage had been frightful beyond contemplation. Every Manchoo in the garrison had been massacred, 20,000 dead in a single day, all the women burned alive—and it would be infinitely worse now, with both Taipings and Imp fugitives joining in an orgy of slaughter and pillage, raping, burning, and butchering everything in sight. Just the place to send poor Flashy, with his little white flag, crying: "Please, sir --may I have a word …?"
"We can only maintain a de facto neutrality by keeping 'em at a distance," Bruce was saying. "If they advance on Shanghai, we're bound either to fight—and God help us—or come to terms with them, which the Manchoos would regard as a flagrant betrayal—and God help our Pekin expedition. So it is our task to see that the Taipings don't come to Shanghai."
"How the deuce d'you do that?" I demanded. "If they beat the Imps at Nanking, and have blood in their eye, they won't stand still!"
"You don't know the Taipings, Sir Harry," says he. "None of us does—except to know that with them anything is possible. I think they'll come to Shanghai—but this crazy king of theirs is capable of declaring a Seven Year Tranquillity, or some such stuff! Or launching his armies west to Yunnan. It is possible they may do nothing at all. That's why you must go to Nanking."
"What can I hope to accomplish?" I protested, and he took a turn round the room, fingered a few papers, sat down, and stared at the floor. Devising some novel means of plunging me into the soup, no doubt.
"I don't know, Sir Harry," says he at last. "You must persuade 'em not to march on Shanghai—at least for a few months—but how you're to do it …" He lifted his head and looked me in the eye. "The devil of it is, I can't send you with any authority. I've not replied to Lee's letter, but I'm having a verbal hint discreetly conveyed to him that he may expect a … an English visitor. No one official, of course; simply a gentleman from the London Missionary Society who wishes to visit the Heavenly Kingdom and present his compliments. Lee will understand … just as he will understand what is meant when the gentleman expresses the opinion—merely the opinion, mind you—that while a Taiping attack on Shanghai would destroy any hope of British co-operation, restraint now would certainly not incline us to a less favourable view of their overtures in the future."
"I can see myself putting that in fluent Mandarin!" says I, and he had the grace to shrug helplessly.
"It is the most I can authorise you to convey. This is the most damned ticklish business. We have to let them see where we stand—but without provoking 'em into action, or offending 'em mortally (dammit, they may be the next government of China!), or, above all, being seen to treat with them in any official way whatsoever. That's why your presence is a gift from God—you've done this kind of business in India, with considerable success, as I recall." Well, that was so much rot; my diplomatic excursions had invariably ended in battle and beastliness on the grand scale, with my perspiring self barely a length ahead of the field. He got up and glowered at the map, chewing his lip.
"You see how difficult it is for me to give you guidance," says he. "We do not even know what kind of folk they truly are. The Heavenly King himself has hardly been seen for years—he keeps himself secluded in a great palace, surrounded by a thousand female attendants, thinking wonderful thoughts!" I was willing to bet he didn't spend all his time thinking. "If he could be persuaded to inaction … to hold Lee in check …" He shrugged. "But who is to say if he is even rational, or if you will be allowed near him? If not, you must do what you can with Loyal Prince Lee."
A splendid choice, you'll agree, between a recluse who thought he was Christ's brother, and a war-lord who'd done more murder than Genghiz Khan.
"The only other who may be open to reason is the Prime Minister, Hung Jen-kan. He's the wisest—or at least the sanest—of the Taiping Wangs. Mission educated and speaks English. The rest are ignorant, superstitious zealots, drunk on blood and power, and entirely under the sway of the Heavenly King." He shook his head. "You must use such tactful persuasions as seem best; you will know, better than I could tell you, how to speak when you are face to face with them."