visibility ended in a bright haze flecked gold by the morning sun, little figures were moving – hundreds of them, advancing out of the mist towards the Imperial army. They couldn’t be more than a mile away, French infantry in open order, rifles at the trail; their trumpets were sounding through the thunder of the Chinese guns, and as the stone shot kicked up fountains of dust among them they held on steadily, moving directly towards us, the Tricolour standards waving before them.
“Oh, vive la France!” mutters Brabazon. “Strange little buggers. See ’em strut, though! Stick it, you Frogs!”
The Chinese horns and gongs were going full blast now, and there was more hullaballoo and racing about on the bridge as lines of British and Indian infantry came into view on the French left flank; in between there was a little line of dust, thrown up by hooves, and above it the twinkling lance-points and the thin slivers of the sabres: Fane’s Horse and the Dragoon Guards, knee to knee. Down beyond the parapet the Chinese gunners were labouring like billy-be-damned; their shot was churning the ground all along the allied line, but still it came on, unhurried and unbroken, and the Chinks were yelling exultantly in their ranks, their banners waving in triumph, for out on the plain could be seen how small was our army, advancing on that mighty mass of Imperials, who outflanked it half a mile on either side. Brabazon was muttering excitedly, speaking my own thought:
“Oh, run away, you silly Chinamen! You ain’t got a hope!”
There was a great stir to the Imperial right, and we saw the Tartar horse were advancing, a great mass swinging out to turn the British flank; the Armstrong shells were bursting above them, little flashes of flame and smoke, but they held together well, weathering it as their stride lengthened to a canter, and Brabazon was beating his fist on the bars.
“My God, do they think Grant’s asleep? He’s been up for hours, you foolish fellows – look! Look there!”
For suddenly a trumpet was shrilling from the allied line, and like a gate swinging on its hinge our cavalry came drumming out of the centre, sweeping round in a deadly arc, the lances going down and the sabres twinkling as they were advanced; like a great fist they tore into the Tartar flank, scattering them, riding them down; as the enemy cavalry wavered and gave back, with Fane’s and the Dragoons tearing into their heart, there was another blast of trumpets, and Probyn’s riders came charging in to complete the rout. Brabazon was bellowing like a madman, and the two Sikhs were dancing at the bars: “Yah sowar! Sat-sree-akal! Shabash!”
Suddenly one of the Sikhs yelled and fell back, blood welling from a gash in his thigh. Nolan caught him, swearing in amazement, and then we saw the Bannerman on the bridge beneath us, screaming curses and brandishing a bloody spear. The mandarin’s staff were shaking their fists at the cage, until the crash of an Armstrong shell on the bridge end sent them headlong for cover; another burst on the far parapet, splinters whining everywhere; the Armstrongs had ranged on the Chinese guns’ positions, and through the thunder of the Imperial salvoes we could hear the thumping strains of the “Marseillaise”; there were the dear little Crapauds storming into the Chinese forward positions, with the Armstrong bursts creeping ahead of them; behind the Chink front line it was like an antheap kicked over, and then another shell burst plumb on the summit of the bridge and we were dashed to the floor of the cage.
When I raised my head Brabazon was back at the bars, staring down in disgust at a bloody palpitating mass on the flags which had been a Bannerman, or possibly two. The ugly mandarin was standing beside it, staring at a bloody gash on his hand, and Brabazon, the eternal oaf, had to sing out:
“Take that, you villain! That’ll teach you to attack a prisoner!”
The mandarin looked up. He couldn’t understand the words, but he didn’t need to. I never saw such livid hate in a human face, and I thought we were goners there and then. Then he strode to the cage, gibbering with fury.
“Fan-qui scum! You see this?” He flourished his bloody hand. “For every wound I take, one of you dies! I’ll send his head back to your gunners, you spawn of the White Whore!” He turned to scream orders to his men, and I thought, oh Jesus, here goes one of us, but it was evidently a promise for the future, for all their response was to line the parapet and blaze away with their jingals at the Frogs, who were still engaged in the forward entrenchments three hundred yards away.
“What did he say?” Brabazon was demanding. “Sir – what was he shouting at us?”
None of them understood Chinese, of course. The unwounded Sikh and the little priest were bandaging the wounded man’s leg; Nolan was a yard off, slightly behind me; Brabazon at my side, questioning. And in that moment I had what I still maintain was one of the most brilliant inspirations of my life – and I’ve had one or two.
Hoaxing Bismarck into a prize-fight, convincing Jefferson Davis that I’d come to fix the lightning-rod, hitting Rudi Starnberg with a bottle of Cherry Heering, hurling Valentina out of the sledge into a snow-drift – all are fragrant leaves to press in the book of memory. But I’m inclined to think Pah-li-chao was my finest hour.
“What did he say, sir?” cried Brabazon again. I shook my head, shrugging, and spoke just loud enough for Nolan to overhear.
“Well, someone’s in luck. He’s going to send one of us under a white flag to the Frogs. Try to make terms, I suppose. Well, he can see it’s all up.”
“Good heavens!” cries Brabazon. “Then we’re saved!”
“I doubt that,” says I. “Oh, the chap who goes will be all right. But the Frogs won’t parley – I wouldn’t, if I commanded ’em. What, trust these yellow scoundrels? When the game’s all but won? No, the French ain’t such fools. They’ll refuse … and we know what our captors will do then …” I looked him in the eye. “Don’t we?”
Now, if we’d been a directors’ meeting, no doubt there’d have been questions, and eleventeen holes shot in my specious statement – but prisoners in a cage surrounded by blood-thirsty Chinks don’t reason straight (well, I do, but most don’t). Anyway, I was the bloody colonel, so he swallowed it whole.
“My God!” says he, and went grey. “But if the French commander knows that five lives are –”
“He’ll do his duty, my boy. As you or I would.”
His head came up. “Yes, sir … of course. Who shall go, sir? It ought to be … you.”
I gave him my wryest Flashy grin and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, my son. But it won’t do. No … I think we’ll leave it to chance, what? Let the Chinks pick the lucky one.”
He nodded – and behind me I could almost hear Nolan’s ears waving as he took it all in. Brabazon stepped resolutely away from the cage door. I stayed at the bars, studying the mandarin’s health.
There had been a brief lull in the Armstrong barrage, but now they began again; the Frogs were trying to carry the second line of works, and making heavy weather of it. The jingal-men were firing volleys from the bridge, the ugly mandarin rushing about in the smoke, exhorting ’em to aim low for the honour of old Pekin High School, no doubt. He even jumped on the parapet, waving his sword; you won’t last long, you silly sod, thinks I – sure enough, came a blinding flash that rocked the cage, and when the smoke had cleared, there were half a dozen Manchoos splattered on the marble, and the mandarin leaning on the parapet, clutching his leg and bawling for the ambulance.
My one fear was that he’d have
