what seemed an age before plunging into warm, silent water, into which I sank down and down forever.
Nowadays, in the split second of uncertainty between sleeping and waking, I sometimes wonder: which is it going to be this time? Am I in the Jalallabad hospital or the Apache wickiup, the royal palace of Strackenz or the bottle dungeon under Gwalior, the down bed at Bent’s Fort or the mealie bags at Rorke’s Drift? Is this the morning I go before the San Serafino firing-squad, or have I only to roll over to be on top of Lola Montez? On the whole, it’s quite a relief to discover it’s Berkeley Square.
I mention this, because in all the unconscionable spots I’ve opened my eyes, I’ve known within seconds where I was and what was what. The Yangtse Valley, for some reason, was an exception; I lay for a good half hour without the least notion, despite the fact that I could overhear people talking about me, in a strange language which, nevertheless, I understood perfectly. That’s the oddest thing; they were talking in a Chinese river dialect (quite unlike Mandarin) which I haven’t learned yet – but in my awakening, it was as clear as English. Ain’t that odd?
One fellow was saying they should cut my throat; another says, no, no, this is an important fan-qui, I should be held for ransom. A third thought it was a damned shame that I’d been the cause of their falling out with the Triads, because those Provident Brave Butterflies were likely lads whom it was foolish to offend. A fourth said they could hold their wind, since she would do what she pleased – guess what? At which they all haw-hawed and fell suddenly silent, and a moment later a hand was raising my head, and strong spirit was being trickled between my lips, and I opened my eyes to see the lean handsome face over the steel chain collar.
Then it came rushing back – the boat, the pirates, that hellish mêlée in the steerage. I struggled up, with my head splitting, staring around – a camp-fire among bushes beside a sluggish stream, half a dozen Chinese thugs squatting in a half-circle, regarding me stonily … two of them I recognised as rivermen who’d been talking to the tall girl that first night. And herself, kneeling beside me with a flask in her hand, eyeing me gravely; she’d lost her kerchief, and her hair was coiled up most becomingly on top of her head, which must have made her about seven feet tall. For the rest, she wore a peasant shirt now, and the ragged knee-breeches, complete with blood-stain.
I demanded information, fairly hoarse, and she gave it. The Yangtse had been ambushed by members of the Provident Brave Butterfly Triad – once a perfectly respectable criminal fraternity which, in these troubled times, had abandoned its urban haunts and gone rogue in the countryside. She and her associates knew the Butterflies quite well; had, indeed, been on friendly terms –
“Until you had to put your knife through Shangi’s guts!” cries one of the lads. “What the hell for? Why?”
He and his friends had spoken their river dialect before; his question now was phrased in a dreadful mixture of bastard Pekinese and pigeon, which I could just make out. Why he used it, I couldn’t think, unless out of courtesy to me – which it probably was, in fact. They have the oddest notions of etiquette, and can show great consideration for strangers, even unwelcome prisoners, which I seemed to be.
Anyway, when he wondered why she’d corrected poor old Shangi’s exercises for him, she simply said: “Because it pleased me,” glanced at me, and then looked away with her lazy smile.
“It’ll please you, then, when the Butterflies make feud, and kill us all,” says he, or words to that effect. “You’ll see. What’s more, he –” flicking his finger at me “– shot Ta-lung-ki. We’ll get the blame for that, too.”
“It saved my life,” says she, and looked at him. “Are you complaining, you little —?”
He hurriedly said, no, of course not, and Shangi and Ta-lung-ki were admittedly a pair of prominent bastards … still, it was a pity to provoke the Triads … he merely mentioned it.
“Who are you?” I interrupted, and she looked slightly surprised.
“Bandits,” says she, as one might have said “Conservatives, of course”, and added with a lift of the splendid head: “I am Szu-Zhan.”
Plainly I was right to look impressed, although I’d never heard the name. I nodded solemnly and said: “I see. You work with the Triads?”
It appeared they didn’t; she and the boys were real bandits, not townee roughs. Sure enough, they’d been preparing to take the Yangtse farther up, but the Triads had got in first, and Szu-Zhan and her gang had been pursuing a neutral policy until (here she looked at me steadily) it had become necessary to intervene. After that, to avoid further embarrassment, they had left, and she’d been considerate enough to throw me over the side first.
“What happened to the others – the passengers and crew?”
“They will be in Kiangyin by now,” says she. “From the bank we saw them beat off the Triads; then they refloated the boat and went down-river.”
Ward, you son-of-a-bitch! I thought to myself. He’d absolutely fought his way clear – and thanks to the zeal of my protectress I was stuck in the wilderness. Not that I could complain – but for her I’d have been digesting Shangi’s axe by now. Which was highly flattering, although I’d known, of course, after our tussle behind the deckhouse, that she had worked up a ravenous appetite for me. It didn’t surprise me, for – I say this without conceit, since it ain’t my doing – while civilised women have been more than ordinarily partial to me, my most ardent admirers have been the savage females of the species. Take the captain of Gezo’s Amazons, for example, who’d ogled me so outrageously during the death-house feast; or Sonseearray the Apache (my fourth wife, in a manner of speaking); or Queen Ranavalona, who’d once confessed shyly that when I died she intended to have part of me pickled in a bottle, and worshipped; or Lady Caroline Lamb – the Dahomey slave, not the other one, who was before my time. Yes, I’ve done well among the barbarian ladies. Elspeth, of course, is Scottish.
And here now was Szu-Zhan of the glorious height and colossal thews – when I thought of the strength that could drive a kampilan through a stout human body from fifteen feet, I felt a trifle apprehensive. But at least I was safe with her, and would be most lovingly cared for, until … ? Aye, the sooner we took order, the better.
“Szu-Zhan,” says I gravely, “I am in your debt. I owe you my life. I’m your friend, now and hereafter.” I held out my hand, and after a moment she grasped it, giving me her pleased, insolent smile. It was like putting your hand in a mangle. “My name is Harry, I am English, and stand high in the British Army and Government.”
“Halli’,” says she, in that deep liquid voice – and d’ye know, it never sounded better.
“And I’m indebted to your friends also,” says I, and held out my hand again. The six proud walkers looked at each other, and frowned, and scratched, and scowled – and then one by one came forward, and each took my hand, and muttered “Hang” and “Tan-nang” and “Mao” and “Yei” as the case might be. Then they all sat down again and giggled at each other.
“I need to go back to Shanghai, quickly,” I went on. “The British Trade Superintendent will pay many taels for my safe return. In silver. I can promise –”
“Not to Shanghai,” says she. “Not even to Kiangyin. This is Triad country, so we go west, until we are strong again – thirty, forty swords. Then let the Butterflies feud!” And she sneered at Mao, the argumentative one.
“Then let me go,” says I. “I pledge two hundred taels, to be paid to you
