She shook her head again. 'Better you speak to him alone. Don't worry, he will understand what you say.' She glanced round at the six wise men, who were studying their orderly surroundings with contempt, and spitting over the edge of the cart. 'You'll get no credit from this company, fan-gui.'
Something in her voice made me look closer—she'd been calling me 'Halli'', not 'fan-qui' for days now. Her eyes seemed bigger, and suddenly I realised, before she turned her head away sharply, it was because there were tears in them.
'For God's sake!' says I, stepping up. 'Here, come down this minute! Come down, I say!'
She slipped over the edge of the cart and leaned against it with that artless elegance that could make me come all over of a heat, and looked sullenly down at me. 'What the devil's the matter?' says I. 'Why won't you come in?'
'It is not fitting,' says she stubbornly, and brushed a hand over her eyes, the bangles tinkling.
'Not fitting? What stuff! Why … Here!' A thought struck me. 'It's not … anything you've done, is it? You're not … wanted … for being a bandit, I mean?'
She stared, and then laughed her great deep laugh, with her head back, the steel collar shaking above her bosom. Gad, but she was fine to see—so tall and strong and beautiful. 'No, Halli', I am not … wanted.' She shrugged impatiently. 'But I would rather stay here. I'll wait.'
Well, the darlings have their own reasons, so when the officer returned I went in alone, and was conducted through a long canvas passage ending in a heavy cloth of gold curtain. He drew it back … and I stepped from the world into the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace.
It was downright eery. One moment the noise and bustle of the camp, and now the dead silence of a spacious tent that was walled and roofed and even carpeted in yellow silk; filtered light illuminated it in a golden haze; the furniture was gilt, and the young clerk writing at a gold table was all clad in yellow satin. He put down his brush and rose, addressing me in good Pekinese:
'Mr Fleming?' He called it Fremming. 'The gentleman from the Missionaries of London?' I said I was, and that I wished to see General Lee Hsiu-chen (whom I was imagining as Timoor the Tartar, all bulk and belly in a fur cloak and huge moustachios).
He indicated a chair and slipped out, returning a moment later in a brilliant scarlet silk jacket—the effect of that glaring splash of colour in the soft golden radiance absolutely made me blink. I rose, waiting to be ushered.
'Please to sit,' says he. 'This is not ceremonial dress.'
He sat down behind the table, folded his hands, and looked at me—and as I stared at the lean, youthful face with its tight lips and stretched skin, and met the gaze of the intent dark eyes, I realised with shock that this slim youngster (I could give him several years, easy) must be the famous Loyal Prince himself. I tried to conceal my astonishment, while he regarded me impassively.
'We are honoured,' says he. His voice was soft and high-pitched. 'You were expected some days ago. Perhaps you have had a troublesome journey?'
Still taken aback, I told him about the river ambush, and how Szu-Zhan and her friends had brought me across country.
'You were fortunate,' says he coolly. 'The tall woman and her brigands have been useful auxiliaries in the past, but they are pagans and we prefer not to rely on such people.'
Not encouraging, but I told him, slightly embarrassed, that I'd promised her two hundred taels, which I didn't have, and he continued to regard me without expression.
'My treasurer will supply you,' says he, and at this point in our happy chat a servant entered with tea and tiny cups. Lee poured in ceremonious silence, and the trickle of the tea sounded like a thundering torrent. For no good reason, I was sweating; there was something not canny about this yellow silken cave with the scarlet-coated young deaths-head asking if I would care for distilled water on the side. Then we sat sipping in the stillness for about a week, and my belly gurgling like the town drains. At last he set down his cup and asked quietly:
'Will the Powers welcome our army at Shanghai?'
I damned near swallowed my cup. If he handled his army as briskly as his diplomacy, it was a wonder there was an Imp soldier left in China by now. He waited until I had done hawking and coughing, and fixed me with those cold dark eyes.
'It is essential that they should.' He spoke in the flat, dispassionate tone of a lecturer. 'The war in China is foregone. The dragon will die, and we shall have killed it. The will of the people, inspired by God's holy truth, must prevail, and in the place of the old, corrupt China, a new nation will be born—the Taiping. To achieve this, we do not need European help, but European compliance. The Powers in effect control the Treaty Ports; the use of one of them, Shanghai, will enable us to end the war so much the sooner.'
Well, that was what Bruce had said, and what we, in our neutrality, were reluctant to grant, because it would put a fire-cracker under Pekin's backside and Grant would have to fight all the way to the capital against an Imperial Government who'd feel (rightly) that we'd betrayed 'em to the Taipings.
'We are aware,' he went on, 'that Britain has a treaty with the Emperor and recognises his government, while not acknowledging even our existence. Perhaps she should recall the saying of an English poet, that treason cannot prosper because with prosperity it ceases to be treason. The Taiping is prospering, Mr Fleming. Is that not a sound reason why your country should look favourably on our request to come to Shanghai in peace and friendship?'
So much for Oriental diplomacy—long fingernails and long negotiations, my eye! There was his case, stated with veiled menaces, before I'd got a word in, let alone Bruce's 'tactful persuasions'. One thing was clear: this wasn't the time, exactly, to tell him we didn't want his long-haired gang anywhere near Shanghai.
'But there is more, much more, than mere practical interest to bind our countries.' He leaned forward slightly, and I realised that behind the impassive mask he was quivering like a grey-hound. The dark eyes were suddenly alight. 'We are Christian—as you are. We believe in progress, work, improvement—as you do. We believe in the sacred right of human liberty—as you do. In none of these things—none!' his voice rose suddenly 'do the Manchoos believe! They respect no human values! Why, for example, do they shuffle and lie and evade, rather than permit your Ambassador to go to Pekin to sign the treaty to which they are pledged? Do you know?'
I supposed, vaguely, that they hoped we'd modify a few clauses here and there, if they put off long enough …
'No.' His voice was level again. 'That is not why. They would sign today—at Canton, or Shanghai, even Hong Kong. But not at Pekin. Why? Because if the ceremony is there, in the Hall of Ceremonies in the Imperial City, with your Lord Elgin and the Emperor, the Son of Heaven, face to face …' he paused, for emphasis '… then all China, All Under the Skies, will see that the Big Barbarian does not go down on his knees before the Celestial Throne, does not beat his head on the ground before the Solitary Prince. That is why they delay; that is why General Grant must go up with an army—because Lord !Agin will not kow-tow. And that they cannot endure, because it would show the world that the Emperor is no more than any other ruler, like your Queen, or the American President. And that they will not admit, or even believe!'
'Touchy, eh?' says I. 'Well, I dare say —'
'Is a government to be taken seriously, that would risk war conquest, even—rather than forego the kow-tow to that debauched imbecile? Come to a Taiping prince, and he will take your Ambassador's hand like a man. That is the difference between a power blinded by ignorance, pride, and brutality, stumbling to its ruin, and a power enlightened, democratic, and benign. Allow me to pour you some more tea.'
Now you'll have noticed that for all his cold, straight talk, he hadn't said they were coming to Shanghai willy- nilly; he'd urged powerful reasons why we ought to invite them, with a strong hint of the consequences if we didn't. Well, we'd have to wait and see, but it was plain I was going to have the deuce of a job fobbing him off for as long as Bruce wanted. This was the kind of steel-edged young fire-eater who'd want a straight answer, p.d.q., and wouldn't wear any diplomatic nods and winks. By gad, he wasted no time; how long had I been with him—ten minutes? Long enough to feel the force that had brought him in ten years from apprentice charcoal-burner and private soldier to the third place in the Taiping hierarchy behind Hung Jen-kan and the Tien Wang himself. It was there, in the cold soft voice and hard unwinking eyes; he was a fanatic, of course, and a formidable one. I didn't care for him one damned bit.
However, I had a part to play, even if we both knew it was a sham. So I thanked him for his illuminating remarks about his great movement, which I looked forward eagerly to studying while I was in Nanking. 'I am only a
