It beats belief, but those lordly idiots at the Imperial Court still wouldn't accept the evidence of their senses. No, their army hadn't been driven like sheep; no, it was impossible that the insolent barbarians could approach Pekin; no, it wasn't happening at all. So they were telling each other, with Sang-kol-in-sen and Prince I spitting venom into the ear of their imbecilic Emperor, convincing the poor dupe that the sound of our guns twenty miles away was merely our last despairing gasp, and that presently we should be laid in the dust at his feet. They were ready to try to prove it, too, as you shall see.
I knew only from my guards that Pekin had proclaimed that we prisoners would be executed the moment our army advanced; I hadn't heard, thank God, that Elgin's reply was a flat defiance: he was coming to Pekin, and if a hair of our heads was hurt, God help the Emperor. Looking back now in safety, I can say he was right; if he'd weakened, those Manchoo idiots would have thought they'd won, and murdered us in sheer gloating exuberance, for that's their style. But as long as he was coming on, with blood in his eye, they held their hands out of secret fear. And he was coming, the Big Barbarian, at the double and tugging his hair; even while I crouched in that hellish cage, and while they were, dying by inches in the Board of Punishments, Grant was throwing aside his map and thrusting his sgian dhu into his boot, and Montauban was haranguing his poilus as they stuffed their cartridge-pouches. It was different, then; touch a Briton, and the lion roared once—and sprang.
They came like a whirlwind on the third day of our captivity, with a thundrous prelude of artillery that had me craning vainly at the thick wooden bars; the townsfolk scattered in panic to get out of the way as Chinese troops came pouring through the square, horse, foot and guns streaming through to the Pekin road. I was croaking with hope, expecting any moment to see the beards and puggarees and lance-heads galloping into view, when I was dragged from my cage and hauled before an armoured horseman. My cramped limbs wouldn't answer at first, but when they lashed my wrists by a long rein to his crupper, and the swine set off up the street—well, it's astonishing how you can hobble when you have to. I knew if I fell I'd be dragged and flayed to pieces, so I ran stumbling with my arms being half-torn from their sockets. Fortunately the road was so crowded with troops that he couldn't go above a trot; we must have been about a mile beyond the town, and more artillery was booming close at hand, when we came in view of an enormous bridge built of great marble blocks; it must have been thirty yards wide by three hundred long, spanning the muddy yellow Peiho. This was the bridge of Pah-li-chao, and here I saw an amazing sight.
On the approaches to the bridge, and for miles to my left, was drawn up the Chinese Imperial Army. I've heard there were thirty thousand; I'd say double that number, but no matter. They stood in perfect parade order, regiment on regiment stretching away as far as I could see: Tartar cavalry in their coloured coats and conical fur hats, lances at rest; rank after rank of massive Bannermen in clumsy armour and barred helms; Tiger soldiers like yellow Harlequins, chanting their war-song; robed jingalmen, two to a piece, their fuses smouldering; half-naked Mongol infantry like stone Buddhas with drawn swords; armoured horse-men with long spears and antique firearms, their wide plated coat-skirts giving them the appearance of gigantic beetles; pig-tailed musketeers in pyjama dresses of black silk and yellow pill-box hats; batteries of their ridiculous artillery, long-barrelled ancient cannon with muzzles carved in fantastic dragon mouths, the stone shot piled beside them, crashing out ragged salvoes that shook the ground—and over all fluttered banners of every hue and design, shimmering in the sunrise, great paper tigers and hideously-featured effigies to frighten the enemy. Above the explosion of the guns rose the hellish din of gongs and cymbals and fifes and rattles and fireworks—China hurling defiance at the barbarians. The noise swelled to a deafening crescendo as the guns fell silent; then it too died to a conclusion, and through the ranks of the tremendous host swept a roar of human sound, pealing out into a final great shout—and then silence.
Silence … a dead, eery quiet over the flat fields before the army, stretching off into the eastern haze. Nothing to be heard but the soft flap of a silk banner, the clink of a stirrup-iron, the gentle swirl of a tiny dust-devil on the marble flags of the bridge, until out of the hazy distance came the far-off voice of a bugle, followed by the faintest of whispers down the wind, a piper playing "Highland Laddie", and the great Imperial army bristled down its length like an angry cat and the horns and cymbals blared again in deafening reply.
My horseman gave an angry shout and spurred up the bridge so suddenly that I was thrown off my feet and dragged across the flags until I managed to stumble up after him. He cast me loose before a knot of mounted officers on the summit; their leader was an ugly, pock-marked mandarin in black plate armour and a pagoda helmet, who flourished a fighting-iron at me.
"Throw this pig in with the rest of the herd!" he bawls, and I saw that behind him, on the parapet, was another of their infernal cages; an iron one this time, as long as an omnibus, containing half a dozen ragged wretches. I was seized and thrust up on to the parapet and through the low iron door; a cry of astonishment met me, and then Brabazon was gripping my hand—a ragged, hollow-eyed Brabazon with his arm in a tattered sling; he was as filthy as I.
"Colonel Flashman! You're alive! Oh, thank God! Thank God you're safe, sir!"
"You call this safe, do you?" says I. He stared, and cackled.
"Eh? Oh, my word—not too safe, perhaps! No … oh, but it's famous to see you, sir! You see, we feared we were the only …" He gestured at his companions—a couple of Sikhs, trying to sit up to attention, a dragoon half-slumped down against the bars, a frail little stick of a man with long silver hair, in a priest's robe. "But Mr Parkes, sir? Mr Loch? What of them?"
I said I believed they were dead. He groaned, and then cried: "Well, at least you're alive, sir!", and the dragoon chuckled, raising his head.
"Shure, an' why wouldn't he be? Ye don't kill Flash Harry that easy—do ye, colonel?" says Trooper Nolan.
He had a bloody bandage round his brow, and there was dried blood on his cheek, but he was wearing the same slack, calculating grin as he stared at me across the cage. Brabazon gobbled indignantly.
"It's not for you to say so, my man! How dare you address an officer in that familiar style?" He grimaced admiringly at me. "Mind you, it's true what he says, sir! They can't keep you down, can they? I'm sure he meant no harm, sir!"
"None taken, my boy," says I, and sank down in the straw opposite Nolan. I'd forgotten all about the blackmailing brute—and now my fears came rushing back at the sight of that knowing peasant grin. You may think I should have had more immediate cares, but the very sight of these five other prisoners had sent my spirits soaring. Plainly they were regarding us as hostages, and would keep us alive to the bitter end—and when we were free again, there would still be Nolan. I could see he was already contemplating that happy prospect, for when a renewed cannonade by the Chink guns took Brabazon to the bars for a look-see, he leaned forward towards me and says quietly:
"Shure, an' mebbe we'll be havin' our little talk after all, colonel."
"Any talking we do can wait until we're out of this," says I, equally quiet. "Until then, hold your tongue."