you don’t dally on the touch-line when the game’s over; I wheeled my pony and made for the head-quarters hill, keeping well to flank of the fleeing Imps, with my escort thundering along behind. The gallopers and standard-bearers were streaming away over the brow, so I circled the hill and found myself in a little wood beyond which lay a broad sunken road, with what looked like a party of sightseers coming down it. There was a disconsolate chap in a green cap carrying a banner which he was plainly itching to throw away, a few stragglers and mules, two minions carrying a picnic basket, and finally, flanked by a galloper with his arm in a bloody sling, and a noisy cove in a Norfolk jacket and gaiters, came a sedan chair, borne by perspiring coolies and containing Frederick T. Ward.
I almost didn’t recognise him at first, for he was swathed in bandages like an Egyptian mummy, with his leg in a splint and a big plaster on his jaw, but it didn’t stop him talking, and I’d have recognised that staccato Yankee voice anywhere. The Norfolk jacket had just finished roaring, in a fine Dixie accent, that he didn’t know wheah Ned Forrestuh wuz, an’ he didn’t dam’ well cayuh, neethuh, an’ if Forrestuh had jest waited till the flanks wuz covered they wouldn’t ha’ bin cotched like a nigguh with his pants down in the melon-patch, it was downright hoomiliatin’.
“Now, you find him damned quick!” snaps Ward. “If he got out – and I hope to God he did – you tell him to get back to Sungkiang with every man he’s got! No, the hell with the gunboat, let the Imps worry about it! For all the good it was we’d ha’ been better with a canoe! Now, get going – Sungkiang, remember! Spitz, find the doctor – I want our casualty count – not the Imps! Goddam it, if only I could walk!”
“An’ whayuh the hell do Ah git goin’ to?” bawled the Norfolk jacket, raising arms to heaven. “’Lessn Forrestuh’s daid, he’ll be back at the rivuh by naow, an’ … holy baldhead, who the hell is that?”
I had reined up by the road, and he was gaping at me, so I gave a cheery wave and sang out: “Just a tourist, old fellow. Hollo, Fred – been in the wars, I see!”
None too tactful, you may say, but no reason for the Norfolk jacket to leap three feet and yell: “Cover him, Spitz! He’s a chang-mao!”
“Don’t be a damned fool, I’m nothing of the sort!” says I. “Do I look like one?”
“They do!” he roars, pointing, and I realised that Jen-kan’s four thugs were lurking modestly behind me, on the fringe of the wood, and there was no denying, they had Taiping haircuts.
“Hold your fire!” I shouted, for Spitz, the wounded galloper, was unlimbering an enormous pistol. “Ward, I’m Flashman! We’re friends! They’re not Taipings … well, they are, but they ain’t hostile! Call him off, Fred, will you?”
He was looking at me as though I were a ghost, but he signed Spitz to put up his piece. “What’n tarnation are you doing here?”
“Going to Shanghai,” says I. “So will you, if you’ve any sense.”
“He’s an Englishman!” cries the Norfolk jacket. “Like Trent an’ Mowbray! Ah kin tell by his voice!”
“I know what he is!” says Ward impatiently, and to me: “I thought you were at the bottom of the Yangtse! Where the dooce have you been?”
“That’s a long story. First, if you don’t mind …” And I turned and waved away my escort, who wheeled and vanished into the wood on the instant, like sensible lads. Spitz raised a great outcry, and the Norfolk jacket waved his arms.
“Savage is English, too, an’ he’s with the Taipings!” he bellowed. “Seed the son-of-a-bitch on the wall this mawnin’, bold as brass –”
“I told you to go find Forrester!” barks Ward, and winced. “Damn this leg! Spitz, will you get that casualty count!” D’you know, they went like lambs; he was still young Fred Ward, but he’d grown some authority, all right.
“Well, I swan!” He shook his head at me. “You back in British service, or what? I thought you said they busted you over that Pearl River business?”
“No-o, you said that, and I didn’t contradict you. I’m still staff colonel.”
“Is that a fact?” He was grinning, although the pale young face was pinched with pain. “And those four – were they on the staff, too? Oh, who cares! Come on, Dobbin!” He waved to the coolies, who heaved up the sedan again. “They don’t gallop, exactly, and I’d as soon the Long-Hairs didn’t catch up with me!”
I told him about Lee’s forthcoming advance as we went, not mentioning Jen-kan, and he never took those bright black eyes off me, although he winced and gasped as he was bounced along. When I’d done, he whistled and swore.
“Well, there goes Sungkiang, I guess. In which case, the hell with it, I’m going to France, and have a rest.” He squinted at me. “It’s pukka – that Lee’s coming?”
“Yes, and the less you say about it, the better. We don’t want him to know he’s expected, do we? But, look here – if you can’t hold Sungkiang, hadn’t you better pull back to Shanghai?”
“I’ve got a contract to hold the dam’ place!” says he. “If I don’t, Yang Fang’ll want his money back – and he’s my father-in-law! Anyway, your man Bruce doesn’t want me anywhere near Shanghai – I’m a confounded mercenary nuisance, old boy, dontcherknow?” He laughed bitterly. “The damned dummy! Why, if he’d supported me with arms and men, we’d ha’ had a half dozen Taiping places by now, and Lee’d never get within twenty miles o’ the coast! But all I get is Imps, and they don’t fight – you saw that mess just now? And I had to lay there and watch! Say, I sure hope Ned Forrester got out, though!”
I said, if Bruce wasn’t helpful, why didn’t he try his own American consulate, and he hooted and said they were even more timid than the British or French. “They’re all glad enough to hide behind us, though, preserving their darned neutrality – and counting their dividends! Ain’t they, though? Oh, I reckon not!” He lay back, gasping and stirring to try to ease his wounds. “God, but I’m tired!”
We were out on the paddy by now, threading along the causeways, and on either side the plain was dotted with groups of fugitives, streaming away from Chingpu – Imps, mostly, but a few in green caps, white men and little dark-skinned chaps who I guessed were Filippinos. They hailed Ward whenever we came within earshot, and he shouted back, although his voice was weak, calling: “All right, boys! Good for you! See you in Sungkiang! Pay-day’s coming, you bet! Hurrah!” And they hurrah-ed back, waving their caps, and trudged on through the paddy.
There was no sign of pursuit, and now we called a halt to eat and rest Ward’s bearers. The picnic basket proved to contain enough for a banquet, with hams, cold roasts and fowls, fruit, chocolate, and even iced champagne, but Ward contented himself with a loaf of bread which he ate in handfuls, soaking each bite in rum. The rest went in no time, for a party of green-cap stragglers came up, and Ward waved them to pitch in; they were Filippinos under a most ill-assorted pair, a huge broken-nosed American with his shirt open over his hairy barrel chest, who looked and talked like a hobo, and a slim little Royal Navy chap with a wing-collar and a handkerchief in his sleeve; Ward called them Tom and Jerry. And now came Spitz, trotting his near-foundered horse, with the news that Ned Forrester was slightly wounded, but that casualties had been heavy.
“There voss a huntret killed, and ass many wounded,” says he, pulling a cold fowl to pieces in his
