GORDON'S QUEST
by Christopher Stasheff
Shang-Ti rested in his great golden throne. His eyes were closed, his breath came and went like the ocean's tide, but he did not sleep. In his trance, the strife and joy and sufferings of his people, the Northern Chinese, came dimly, filtered through his concentration, but he was able to dismiss most of those who called on him. The people who had invented him, the ancient Chinese of the Shang Dynasty, were three millennia dead. While they lived, he had been a very busy god indeed, managing a legion of subordinate gods and nature-spirits, lending his might to prevent the worst of disasters to the Shang kings and their people, and striving to inculcate some trace of the strong moral sense that was the very core of his being, to the people from which he had sprung. But inevitably the dynasty, and the people, had grown corrupt, had begun to think more of their own pleasures and gain than of others, and in their self-preoccupation, had begun to think less frequently of their gods, to believe in them less strongly. As their faith weakened, so did Shang-Ti, until at last, he was unable to aid them in their constant battles against the barbarians who sought to steal the riches of their civilization. Finally, the barbarians had ridden in, as they had again and again, slain the king, looted, raped, pillaged, and burned, and left only smoking rubble behind them. For a few centuries, villages here and there tried to maintain some vestige of civilization; their faith had strengthened, giving Shang-Ti some power to assist them; but there had not been enough of them, and there had been far more of the barbarians. They did believe in their bloodthirsty gods, believed most strongly, and there were very many of them. Shang-Ti had led his own diminished band against them, but his vitality was sorely depleted, as was that of his subordinate gods, and finally, the last of his believers perished. He persisted as a memory, a folktale, an historical note; but when the Chou Dynasty arose from the ashes of the Shang and extended its reach far beyond the Yangtze Valley, they worshipped other gods, and there was little to disturb Shang-Ti from his slumbers—which was fortunate, for he was very tired.
So he rested, rarely disturbed. Oh, an historian here and there occasionally impinged upon his awareness, but only with interest, not with a demand; the Taoists occasionally roused him, but more often with blessings than with petitions, so he had some strength with which to answer those requests that did come. But they were rare, and his peace was deep.
Then suddenly, some force yanked him rudely from his contemplation. With indignation, he focused his perceptions to see what mite dared intrude upon him. It was a country school teacher, he saw, who had come to Canton to take his civil service examinations, failed them, and fallen ill, with fever and deliriums—and with shock, Shang-Ti discovered that he was caught up in that delirium, borne into a role quite alien to him, by the force of that simple school teacher's belief, unleashed from his subconscious by the fever. Bits of pieces of some Christian tracts that the man had glanced at, whirled together with his Taoist upbringing, and Shang-Ti was startled and dismayed to find himself wrapped up in a role he would never have chosen, repellant to him because of the deception, the impersonation, of a god who was far more than a god, and through the fevered imagination of the hallucinating scholar, he had been burdened with a son who had never been one of his own, made purely of that scholar's imagination, goaded by the scraps of tract and scripture, and fueled by hatred of the Manchus who had conquered China two hundred years before. In disgust, Shang-Ti found himself goaded to actions he would never have performed, found himself smiling upon the naive school teacher within his own dream, found himself speaking words he had never thought.
Then it was over, for the school teacher had wakened from his fever-dream. The imagined son was gone, the alien role was cast away, and Shang-Ti sat limp and dazed in his great golden throne, shaken by the force of human hatred and desire needing to justify itself in fanatical belief. For a timeless moment, he sat, recuperating. . . .
Then he stiffened, galvanized, as that same force took hold of him again, only doubled now, then tripled, then magnified tenfold. The school teacher had remembered his dream, had read more Christian scriptures, and had gone forth to convert his fellow men to a faith that Christians in the West would scarcely have recognized. To Shang-Ti, it seemed a bizarre and twisted faith, as it did to those Westerners who finally learned its full set of beliefs—though to them, it was strange, even blasphemous, because it incorporated so many elements of Chinese religion.
To Shang-Ti, it was alien, even sacrilegious, because of the Western ideas that wrapped it about.
But at its core—ah, at its core, it was purely the strivings and yearnings of Hung Hsiu-Chuan, the school teacher from whose fevered brain it had sprung, and who had gone out, wielding his patchwork Christianity like a sword with which to smite the demons—and the Manchus, to drive them out of China. He sought to destroy the Ching Dynasty, and return the rule of China to the Chinese. . . .
Led by himself, Hung Hsiu-Chuan, Great King, who had declared the rule of the Tai-Ping Tien Kuo, the Great Kingdom of Heavenly Peace; Hung Hsiu-Chuan, visionary, prophet—and the Younger Son of God, and Younger Brother of Christ.
Tseng Kuo-Fan was Chinese, but he did not much mind the Manchus—after all, they had become almost completely Chinese, even though they still refused to accept a few civilized customs, such as binding the feet of their women. He did not even mind the fact that the Manchus made all Chinese men shave their heads and wear a pigtail down the back; he did not mind it, for he had grown up with it, as had his father and his grandfather and grandfather's grandfather before him.
It did irritate him that no Chinese could ever rise to the highest posts in the land, that the equivalent of dukes and earls, the mightiest of mandarins, must always be Manchus—but thus had it been even with Chinese dynasties; the highest posts were always held by blood relatives of the royal family; and since Tseng Kuo-Fan had passed the highest of the civil service examinations, he could ascend by sheer ability to the second level of the bureaucracy.
He had already made great progress; he was now a general in the Imperial Army. He had far more to lose than to gain.
But these ignorant upstarts, these hill-country rebels, Hung Hsiu-Chuan and his "princes," could very easily upset all that, and deprive him of a lifetime of striving. More deeply, though, they disturbed Tseng Kuo-Fan in a far more profound way.
The Manchus did not, for if they had conquered China, China had then conquered them; they had been concerned only to gain the luxuries and riches of the oldest continuing civilization in the world, and guarantee that wealth and privilege for their progeny. They did not truly wish to change it.
But the Taipings did. They had broken the statues of Buddha and the Bodhisatvas; they had smashed the images of the Taoist gods, and the soul-tablets of Confucius. If they conquered China, they would eradicate all rival religions, and with them, half the culture and thought of China. Perhaps even worse, they would expunge the Confucian civil service system that had given China continuity through periods of anarchy and barbarian conquests; they would alter the very soul of China. Already they had brought in Western guns and Western organization; they had dreamed up new ways to use those weapons far more extensively than even the Manchus had, improvised ways of using them that even the English and the French had not; they ran their conquered provinces like Army units, with strict segregation of the sexes and virtual slave labor for all but the soldiers; and they looked to the West for their inspirations, not to Confucius or Lao-Tze or any of the sages. Given their heads, they would no doubt remodel China to resemble one of the nations of those upstart barbarians, those foreign round-eyed devils, the Europeans.
Yes, all in all, the Taipings were a greater threat to China than the Manchus . . .
And to Tseng Kuo-Fan and his family. Though it galled him a little to fight for the conquering Manchus, they were quite the lesser of the two evils.
Hugi came to Tyr, where he stood watching the einherjar battle. The raven spoke with the cawing voice of his kind: "Heimdall has heard a commotion at the far end of the world."
Tyr's blood ran cold, as it always did when news came of Heimdall's hearings. He knew that the voice might be that of a raven, but the words were those of Odin. "Is it the Time?"
"Nay," said Odin's messenger, "for these are not giants, nor do they approach. Come to my master."
Relieved, Tyr came.
"Nay, 'tis not the Ragnorak come upon us," Odin confirmed, when Tyr stood before him by the ash tree.
"Who are they, then?" the one-handed god asked.
"They are the yellow people of the Jade Emperor and Kung Fu-Tze."
Now, Confucius was not called a god, and Tyr knew it well—but he knew also that the sheer power of belief of billions of souls had elevated the sage's ghost till he had become just as much a god as Odin himself . . .
. . . and no more.
"What quarrel brews among them?" Tyr demanded.
"They contend with one another in civil war."
Tyr relaxed. "What business is it of ours?"
"They have made themselves a new god—or rather, wrapped an old one in Christian clothes. They have set him against the gods of the Manchus, and strive to conquer China away from those northern invaders. They seek to drag the Emperor off his throne and expel all Manchus from the Middle Kingdom."
Tyr shook his head. "There is still nothing in here to concern the gods of Northern Europe."
"But there is—for the descendents of our people seek to trade with these Chinese, and will be sorely oppressed if the school teacher's god triumphs Moreover, if his followers conquer China, the sleeping dragon shall waken, and may threaten even the island fortress of the Angles, the Saxons, and the Danes."
"And the Normans, though they had forgotten us by the time they conquered!" Tyr s face had set into grim lines, "Can these silly slant-eyes truly threaten the West?"
"There are very many of them," Odin pointed out, "and they are valiant warriors, if they are given decent leadership. The school teacher has chosen good generals, and his followers have begun to triumph over the forces of the Emperor. Already he holds a third of China in his sway, and has declared that he is the rightful Emperor, that the Mandate of Heaven has been withdrawn from the Manchus and has come to him. He calls his reign the Tai-Ping Tien Kwoh—The Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace."
"Is that why he sheds so much blood?" Tyr scowled, gazing off toward the East. "I had thought the Englishman to be right when he said that China was a sleeping dragon."
"Then the schoolteacher Hung Hsiu-Chuan may waken that dragon—and if he does, let the West beware."
Tyr locked gazes with Odin again. "There are many dragon-slayers among our brood."
"Go find one, then," Odin commanded. "Find me a hero who can bind the will of England against these upstarts who would make a god of bits and pieces. There are many in Britain who think these Taipings are good, for they seem to be Christians. Make me a hero who shall see the school teacher for the blasphemer he is, and unite the English to see it, too."
Tyr shook his head. "Heroes are made as much as they are born. I shall seek a man who is the raw stuff, and made a hero of him."
And the god of the single hand was soon to be seen, here and there, walking through England again. Those who saw him turned away their eyes, and tried to pretend they had not seen—and certainly spoke of him to no one, for they knew that when Tyr was seen about the land, war would come for England.
But one man did not turn away.
Charles George Gordon was off duty, walking the seashore near Pembroke Dock, gazing at the roaring surf that mirrored the tumult in his own soul, but gazing beyond it at the deep rolling swell that showed him the tranquility to which he aspired. He had been wandering for perhaps an hour when he met the one-handed man.
Gordon had only been graduated from the Royal Military Academy for a year and a half; he was twenty, and waiting for orders to his first assignment, eager for the excitement of the fray. He knew, in a way that was neither remote nor academic, that he might be killed, might even be maimed, might undergo horrible pain—but the thought did not deter him. He was sure that he could endure any pain God saw fit to allot to him—had he not already undergone self-imposed hardships, fasting and long marches? If God saw fit to call him home to heaven before his allotted threescore years and ten—why, he was ready.
But he was not ready for the encounter with the old mendicant, whose gaze fixed him with an intensity that stabbed through to his very soul.
He saw the old man sitting on his heels by a small fire, and pity moved his heart, though he was careful not to let it show in his face. Surely the man was in desperate need—all he wore were the skins of animals, and a pair of sandals. Gordon came up to the fire, reaching in his pocket for a shilling, reflecting that he must not seem patronizing—he knew what pride was; who should know better? "Good day to you, my man."
"Good day to you." The old beggar looked up, raising an arm in greeting—and Gordon thrilled with shock to see that his wrist ended in a metal cup; the hand was gone. He forced himself to look away, to look at the old man's eyes—a mistake, for that glittering gaze held Gordon transfixed; for a moment, he could not have moved if he had found himself staring down the muzzle of a musket.
Then the old man looked down at the partridge that was roasting over his little fire, and Gordon could move again. A delusion, no doubt—but he thought twice about offering the alms he had intended. He stared at the man, at a loss for words—and the more so because he realized that the furs the old man wore, were clean, almost new, as clean as the man himself. He wore nothing but a jerkin and a kilt, only skins with the fur left on. His long grizzled hair was held back by a headband that shone like burnished gold—or, no, surely it was brass, but darker than brass.
He did not look like a man in need.
Oh yes, he was lean, and the bones were prominent in his cheeks—but except for the long moustaches that hung down below his chin, his face was cleanly shaved, and his arms and legs were thick with muscle. He did not look to be a man in need—rather a man in his element, whose life gave him all he needed.
But that could not be! He had no house, or he would not have been cooking by an open fire; he had no proper clothes. There were no wild men left in England, in Victoria 's reign; what could he be?
"You are wondering where my hand is."
Gordon could only nod; had he been so obvious?
"I left it in the mouth of a wolf. Seat yourself." It was a command as much as an invitation. "Partake of my meal."
Gordon was revolted, but also strangely attracted. He found himself sitting slowly, and murmuring, "Thank you."
"It is as you will." The accent was not West Country—nor any other dialect that Gordon recognized. Perhaps a touch of the Prince Consort, perhaps an echo of the German . . .
"Where are you bound?"
There was a time when Gordon would have said, "I don't know;" but on his first posting, he had met Captain Drew, the closest thing to a friend he had had in that grim and dingy place—and Drew had taught him a strange thing: Christianity without a church. It had come as a revelation to Gordon, with his New England Puritan mother and three generations of Army Gordons gone before him. Discipline he knew, and always rebelled against it, though he had already begun to insist on it from his subordinates—if there were such a thing as a subordinate to a subaltern. Church he knew, and resented its boredom intensely. But Drew prayed quietly, by himself, and made no great show of his faith; it had been only a chance comment at first, a reference here and there, but long explanations when Gordon asked for them. For Gordon, religion had ceased to be an inconvenience, had become an obsession.
So now, when the old man asked him where he was bound, he replied, "Where God wills." The words came automatically, as easily as one might say "To Aberdeen" or "To London."
The uncanny gaze fixed him again, and the odd guttural voice said, "Are you not bound for glory, young soldier? Do you not yearn for it?"
"No," Gordon said.
The old man nodded as though it were no surprise. "There is one thing you do yearn for, though."
"Yes." Gordon met his gaze. "Heaven."
The old man nodded. "Do you not mean—death?"
"Of course," Gordon said impatiently. "Death is the gateway to Heaven."
The old man's smile was almost lost in his moustaches. "You shall have it—some day. For you must earn it, must seek it as Galahad sought the Grail. But you may begin your quest in the Crimea. Request your posting."
"I have," Gordon said, feeling irritation begin. "The Army ignores me."
"Then ask Sir John Burgoyne."
Gordon could only stare, again feeling the thrill, the chill, of that single-minded gaze. How could the old man have known that the War Office's Inspector-General of Fortifications was an old friend of the Gordon family? "What are you, then?"
"Your genius, perhaps." The old man rose—perhaps not so old after all, perhaps only in his fifties . . . "Perhaps a messenger, come to tell you that you shall find what you seek in the East."
But he was going away! "Wait!" Gordon cried. "Your bird!"
"Take it," the one-handed man told him. "It is not the last of my suppers you shall eat."
Gordon stared after him, feeling the chill rise up his spine like mercury in a thermometer. Then he shook it off, and looked down at the grouse. When he looked up again, the old man was gone. Disappeared.
Gordon stared at the place where he had been for several minutes, then looked slowly down at the grouse. Carefully, he took it from the fire, tore loose a leg, and began to eat.
The Bear roared, its little eyes blazing, huge claws reaching out to rake at Tyr—but the one-handed god batted the huge paw aside with contempt. "I am fated to fight the Fenris Wolf, beast! How pathetic are you compared to that great Foe!"
"You are all of you only very little men!" the Bear growled. "You could not stand against me, if there were not so many of you!"
"Then call your own army," Thor rumbled, hefting his hammer. "These men are the grandsons of grandsons' grandsons of those who worshipped me, and I shall strengthen their arms!"
"I shall craft them wondrous weapons," Wayland the Smith added.
"Only the three?" The Bear roared in mockery. "Where is the fourth? Where is the trickster, where is Loki?"
"Loki has his own business," Thor said grimly. He was angry at the Flame-god, but was quite willing to turn that anger on the Bear. "We shall not need him."
But they did.
The guns thundered, the horse under him screamed and stumbled. Gordon shouted and leaped clear, proud that even in such extremity he had not cursed nor sworn. But he did call upon his God. "Lord help me now!" he cried, as he sheathed his saber and drew his revolver. He walked straight toward the belching Russian cannon, staring at the Slavic faces behind its breech. Terror surged within him, fought to tear loose and overwhelm him, but he fought it down sternly and went step by step toward the cannon, thinking, If it be thy will, O Lord, then I shall die; if it be thy will! For he knew the Russians were almost as bad as the Papists, with their drinking and treacheries, ignoring the clear, shining doctrines of true Christianity.
Bullets whistled about him, shells burst to right and left—but not a scrap of lead touched him, not a shard of shrapnel. He came through the smoke unto the breech of the gun, and the gunners looked up, staring in horror out of their broad Slavic faces, as though they were seeing a ghost.
Gordon raised his pistol, and fired.
"He is blooded," Tyr told Odin. "The war is done; for fifteen months he has toiled at mapping the borders laid down by the treaty."
Odin frowned. "How will that aid in making a hero of him?"
"Because," said Tyr, "it has given him a love for wild, open lands, simple living, and rough people with ways that are new and exciting to him. Never again he will never be content to remain in England for very long."
Odin nodded thoughtfully. "It is well done. But how shall you confront the Chinese gods? What force of immortals can you assemble, to support your champion?"
"I will begin with the oldest," said Tyr, "with the war-god whose people are so long gone that we have forgotten their name. Then I will come to the Celts."
Lugh looked up from the spear he was sharpening and saw the One-Handed stalking toward him out of the mist between their realms. He leaped to his feet, brandishing his spear and shouting, "Can I never be done with you? Begone, invader! Away, or I will slay you again!'
"Then I would slay you," Tyr returned, irritated by the Celt's bravura, "and we would both be alive again in a second, to continue it all again. Have you not learned, oh Chalk-Hair, that we can only die if humans cease to believe in us?"
"Then how is it you still live?" Lugh taunted. "The White Christ chased you all out of Britain years ago!"
"No more than yourself," Tyr returned. "Have the Britions ceased to light fires on Samhain? Have they ceased to dance about the Maypole? Come, you know these things of old, and know that the Island People today are as much your children as mine!"
"They are that," Lugh growled, "more's the pity."
Tyr heaved a sigh. "You were ever poor losers, you braggart Celts. Is it of no matter to you that our island people are at war again?"
"When are they not at war?" Lugh returned. "When they extended their sway around the world, they took up the challenge of constant warfare, somewhere in the world."
"But now they contend against the Dragon," Tyr said, "or will, soon—and millions of souls shall fuel the power of the god they worship. Come, it will take all of us to defend our folk this time—even the Ancient Ones, in whom the Britons have only shreds of belief. We must bind together now, as surely as we are bound in the blood and bone of these descendants of our worshippers."
Lugh scowled. "We are so bound, aye. But who shall you find to bind them all to one mind for this war? They are a contentious lot, and are forever arguing as to what course of action to take. Why, they could not even agree to forge an empire—it fell to them almost by accident, and by the commerce of their merchants more than their lust for power!"
"That is true," Tyr said, "but the army always followed to protect the merchants—and I have found us a soldier who can bind their determination together, whether he will or no."
"What paragon is this?" Lugh demanded. "Cymri or Celt, Briton or Dane?"
"Come and see for yourself." Tyr turned on his heel and stalked away.
Lugh glowered after him, then hefted his spear and followed.
The campaign was done, its echoes were dying inside his head. He walked by the waters of the Black Sea, already restless again. Orders had come to go to Bessarabia and survey the border with Russia, to be sure it conformed to the Paris treaty—but it was only dull routine, and there was no chance there for fighting, for death.
So he walked by the sea, its tranquility soothing his soul; the gibbering terrors were laid to rest, and the sight of the sea and the tranquility of its endless beating were healing his soul.
He saw the one-handed man.
He stared at the figure sitting by the fire ring—but the coals were dark, there was no meat, and no flame. Then, slowly, Gordon came up to the ashes. But he did not sit; he had not been invited.
The old man looked up. "Sit."
Gordon sat.
"You have won glory." The old man did not ask; he knew.
Gordon shrugged impatiently. "It means nothing." Nonetheless, he touched the medal on his breast. "I have not found death."
"Not for yourself, no. But it shall come, it shall come."
Gordon's eyes glowed. "Soon?"
The old man shrugged. "How quickly is 'soon'? In three years' time, you shall have another chance."
Gordon was sorely disappointed. "Three years? For three years I must rot in peace?"
"There will be work," the old man assured him. "You will discover new delights; you will not decay." The old man looked down at the roast, then looked up again. "There is much glory to be won for your God, much fame to be gained for His name."
Gordon felt the cold chill again, the thrill; his heart leaped. "Will there be war?"
"For England, yes," the one-handed man said. "For you, there will be more hunting."
The terror screamed to be let out, but Gordon kept it locked in. His eyes shone with gratification. "What quarry?"
"The Dragon," the old man said.
Then he rose and turned away. "Eat of my supper."
"I shall." Gordon lowered his gaze to see that the meat was done; he took the spit from the fire. He did not bother to look up; he knew the one-handed man would be gone.
"Bow down, and do not even seek to raise your hands against me!" the shining figure proclaimed. "Am I not the God your Englishmen worship? Am I not God the Father?"
"You are not." Loki gestured, and the flames of glory died, showing only a venerable Chinese sage.
"You are Shang-Ti, the ancient father-god of China, and have deluded that poor dreamer Hung Hsiu-Chuan into mistaking you for the Father of Christ, and your son of Jesu.'
"I deluded him?" The sage's mouth tightened. "Say rather that he has trapped me in his delusion—he, and a hundred thousand of his followers!"
Thor laughed, and the clouds shook with his mirth. "Oh, well done, Loki! Well have you seen through his imposture!"
"To no purpose, barbarians!" Shang-Ti snapped. "Can your soldiers fight against one who believes he fights for the son of their God? What will the real Son say? What will the Father? What of the God your foreign devils claim to worship? What of Jehovah?"
"Hush! Do not speak His Name!" Tyr glanced about uneasily. "He is above and beyond this conflict, Ancient One—above and beyond all things. For we are but fabrications of the minds and hearts of human beings, given life by their deepest, most secret yearnings—even as they are of His."
"Their belief will give me strength to stand against you and all your land!"
"All?" Tyr looked back over his shoulder at the Celtic gods and, beyond them, the dim and distant elder gods of Britain. He turned back to Shang-Ti. "There are many of us, Old One. But there are many of yours, too. Call up your vast array of deities."
"I cannot!" Shang-Ti said bitterly. "This dunce of a school teacher has bound me into a religion in which there is only one God. I am bereft of my entourage."
Tyr raised an eyebrow. "Then you stand alone against us?"
"Let your puny Englishmen come!" Shang-Ti blustered. "My people shall swallow them, chew them up, and spit them out, as they have done to so many before!"
"They have not chewed me, Ancient One." The Manchu war-god stepped up beside Tyr and Odin. "And my lance is still in your heart."
But Shang-Ti wrenched out the lance and threw it back with contempt. "They have swallowed you, they have chewed you—and even now prepare to eject you. You, and all who are yours!"
"Indeed?" The Manchus eyes glittered dangerously. "Then I must rip out their bellies while I am still within them!"
England had forced a new treaty on the Chinese and withdrawn her gunboats, but the Emperor refused to sign it. Well, not refused, exactly, but there was one delay after another, cavil after cavil, excuse after excuse. Finally, in exasperation, England had sent Lord Elgin to make sure the treaty was signed—and Sir Hope Grant, with 15,000 soldiers, to clear his way.
It was late, very late, when Gordon received his orders. He strode the decks with impatience; he barely restrained himself from blowing into the sail, to try to hurry the ship faster. When they were becalmed and the great paddlewheels alone drove them, he stood calm and still on the outside, but was almost feverish with anxiety inside.
And sure enough, by the time he came to the China coast, the first few battles had been won; the Union Jack flew over the Taku Forts. But Lord Elgin and the army had advanced only as far as Tientsin, and Gordon joined them there.
Elgin gave the signal, and Sir Grant moved his troops northward. An Imperial army blocked his way, with Manchu bannermen at its center, tall and burly in bright half-armor, banners fluttering overhead. Almost as intimidating were the troops of Mongol cavalry on the wings, sturdy men with pointed, fur-trimmed caps who rode tough little ponies. Gordon looked upon them and felt an echo of the dread that Europe had felt when Genghis Khan's horde had ridden in from the steppe.
But the Europeans had fast-moving cavalry of their own now, and cannon and grapeshot, as well as a musket for every infantryman—and they blasted by the numbers, laying down a continuous field of fire while they advanced, row upon row, volley upon volley. The Mongol cavalry rode as a mob, and broke upon the wave of bullets; the proud Manchu bannermen charged and stumbled as the grapeshot hit them. The Manchu cannons boomed in reply, but the stone balls fell short, or flew wide.
To Gordon, in the thick of it, the battle seemed interminable, as all battles did; time stopped as he urged his troop on, seeming to ignoring the hail of musket balls about him—though secretly hoping one would strike him. But none did, and suddenly it was all over; the bannermen and the Chinese infantry were in full retreat, the Mongols were galloping away. Sir Grant would not let his men follow; their mission was to bring Elgin to Peking, not to conquer China.
But his strategy seemed odd; they swung north of Peking, and came down through the Summer Palace. Gordon stared in awe at mile after mile of perfectly manicured garden, of dainty dells and miniature pagodas next to ponds that were expanded to lakes by the scale of the models. There was not one palace, but two hundred, some with scores of rooms, some of merely a dozen—pavilions and summerhouses and arbors, made of precious woods and decorated with jewels.
But there was litter on the grass, and cups and plates left on the tables, for the Emperor and his household had fled in frenzy, farther north to Jehol, only days before the French and English came.
So the guns rained cannon balls and grapeshot on Peking, and Prince Kung graciously agreed to discuss terms. An agreement was signed—by the Prince, not the Emperor, but Kung was his brother and regent, and the Emperor was reputed to be ill. Elgin declared amity, and demanded that the prisoners the Manchus had taken be returned.
They came in bullock carts—carts carrying wooden boxes. The English and French looked upon the remains of their countrymen and their loyal Sikh troops, and paled, and trembled.
The Army screamed for blood to answer the blood that had been shed, the tortures that had been visited on their men. A few were still alive, and told of the pains inflicted by the Board of Punishments. But the treaty had been signed anew; Britain and France had pledged amity again; they could not strike through to conquer Peking and punish Prince Kung and his torturers, nor march north to capture the ailing Emperor himself. Lord Elgin strode through the Summer Palace, sunk in brooding thought, then emerged to announce the punishment to be visited on the Manchus—a punishment that would smite only the Emperor and his nobles, by destroying a treasure that had been reserved to them alone:
The Summer Palace.
The French diplomat protested at the destruction of such beauty, that had taken centuries in the building, but Elgin stood firm. His own officers warned that by destroying the Emperor's private pleasure-park, he would undermine Chinese respect for the Manchu regime; he would strike at its foundations, and the government of China might crumble. Elgin stood firm.
"Begone, you barbarian monkeys!" The Manchu gods were drawn up in a wedge. "If your hairy devil-people dare to seek to strike at our Emperor, you shall die on our spears!"
But Tyr stood between Thor and Lugh, his own spear poised in his palm, a shield fastened to his hand-less arm. Behind him, in array, stood the gods of the Danes and the Angles and Saxons; beyond them stood the gods of the Celts. Even farther back stood the shadowed gods of the Elder Britons, and in the distance, dim but menacing, hulked the gods to whom Stonehenge had been erected.
"We are far more in number than you," Tyr informed the Manchu gods, "but that matters far less than our strength; for your people have begun to turn away from you, to forget you—and the Chinese gods have never stood with you. Give way, or perish."
The old gods of Great Britain began to march.
"You are an engineer," the major told him, for he was an officer in the Engineers, truly enough. "You shall destroy the Birthday Garden—the Wang-shaw-ewen, as they call it—destroy it, and all its buildings."
Gordon had little use for art and sculpture, but even he could appreciate the beauty he had been sent to destroy. An order was an order, though, especially when he could see the sense of it—and he had seen the bodies of the tortured British. He led his men out on an overcast morning, the air heavy and oppressive. They broke into a palace, and Gordon stopped, amazed at the wealth of china and porcelain and gold and jade—the statues, the tea sets, the chess sets, the accumulated bric-a-brac of two hundred years, but all made of precious metals or stones, or of fragrant woods inlaid with gems.
He could not stand to see it all go up in flames. "Take what you can," he told his men—then, as though the words were dragged out of him: "and break the rest."
Hundred-year-old vases of eggshell porcelain shivered into a thousand slivers; delicate cups and teapots shattered. Finally the soldiers went through the palace with their torches . . .
And through the groves of fruit trees, and the sculptured bushes.
In other gardens, other English and Indian troops were doing the same; in still others, French troops looted what they could and broke what they could not carry. The accumulated loot was divided up, and the smoke of the fairyland-made-real ascended into the sky, a pillar of darkness that proclaimed the Emperor's weakness. The citizens of Peking looked up, and took note; in the months that followed, merchants brought the tale outside the city, and it spread through all of China. The Chinese learned of the Manchu Emperor's humiliation . . .
And the sheer brute power of those uncultured barbarians, the Foreign Devils who could break priceless beauties beneath their heavy boots, and scarcely notice.
But Gordon was restless. He had come to China to find death, not to destroy a beautiful garden. The English and French troops had withdrawn, but 3000 British soldiers stayed behind at Tientsin, to make sure the Chinese paid the indemnity specified in the treaty. The force was commanded by General Stavely, whose sister had married Gordon's eldest brother Henry. Impatient, Gordon filled his time by surveying the country around Tientsin when on duty, and riding long distances to keep fit, when off-duty—seventy miles at a stretch. He explored the region of the Great Wall, seeking passes by which Russia might attack China. Restless or not, he found himself almost at peace, almost happy, for the scenery and the strangeness of it all held him entranced, and he thrived on the work.
After a year and a half, though, the Taiping rebels in the Yangtze valley began to move again toward the treaty port of Shanghai, and the international trading community settled there became nervous. Stavely decided to reinforce the garrison, sending two regiments and a group of Engineers—commanded by Gordon.
Gordon arrived on the scene, his appetite keen for action, only to find that the British were cleaving to a policy of strict neutrality—the international army of Indian, British, and French troops would fight if Shanghai were attacked, or if the Taipings came within thirty miles of the city, but they could not go farther afield; they were to be defensive only. Gordon was put to work constructing new defenses, wondering why his superiors could not see that the best defense was a good offense. He learned something of the Taiping religion, and was fascinated by its strangeness at the same time as he was incensed at its distortions of sound Protestant Christianity. He learned more when he was sent to survey their outpost, Tsingpo, at the very edge of the thirty-mile region that the Western powers regarded as sacrosanct.
The Chinese merchants, however, were in no mood to wait until the fearsome Taipings should come to them. They had hired an American adventurer, Frederick Townsend Ward, who had put together a small army of a few thousand mercenaries, and had not been too concerned about the honor or legal background of his men. He had lost as many battles as he had won, but was at least doing something to hold the Taipings at bay.
Then the British took Tsingpo, thanks in no small measure to Gordon's excellent information—and Ward was killed chasing the Taipings as they retreated. His second-in-command, Burgevine, took over—but Burgevine had little respect for law, and less for morality; he was a former gun-runner, and a flagrant opportunist looking for the best deal. He and the polyglot army captured Kahding on the northern edge of the thirty-mile boundary, and he let his men loot their fill—and slaughter the Taiping prisoners.
General Stavefy was shocked, and determined to remove Burgevine from the command. He would replace the blackguard with a proper soldier, one who was concerned not for riches, but for Right. He looked about him to see what officer he could spare . . .
And the choice fell on Gordon.
Tseng-Kuo-Fan was Commander-in-Chief of the Imperial forces against the Taiping rebels, but Li Hung-Chang was governor of Kiangsu Province, and Tseng's general in the east. Li held up the pay for Burgevine and his troops, so Burgevine rounded up a few of his roughest men, marched on the bank, beat up the banker, and took the cash. Li promptly fired him, then accepted Gordon's appointment to command the little army (though he insisted on a Chinese co-commander, to make sure Gordon did as Li wanted).
Thus Gordon, the regular-army officer, with a tradition of service stretching back three generations, took command of a mercenary army, determined to teach them discipline and end their excesses. He began by renaming them: the Ever-Victorious Army.
His Chinese soldiers were impressed. His Western bandits were not. They tried to mutiny, twice; Gordon put them down with stern resolve. Half of them deserted; Gordon was just as glad to see them gone. He recruited replacements and trained them, making sure they knew discipline from the beginning. Finally Governor Li gave him his orders, and with 3500 men, two batteries of field artillery, and four batteries of siege artillery, he embarked for the town of Chanzu, which was steadfastly resisting a Taiping siege.
Gordon had not wasted his five months in and around Shanghai. He had surveyed every acre within the thirty-mile perimeter, and knew the location of every village—but more importantly, he also knew the location of every stream and canal, and how they interconnected to form a network of waterways. He collected a small fleet of river boats, equipped them with cannon fore and aft, and put them under the direction of Yankee skippers who knew river navigation from the United States. The time come, he marched his men on board and cast off to work his way through the canals and rivers of Fushan Creek, which connected Chanzu with the Yangtze.
As they steamed up Fushan Creek, a party of Taipings appeared out of the rice paddies to either side. They began to lay down a field of fire around the Hyson, Gordon's "flagship." Gordon commanded the gunners to fire; the 32-pounder in the bows boomed, and grapeshot raked the Taiping line. Their fire faltered, but kept up. A second cannon shot silenced their fire, and a third made them retreat—they were an experienced army, and knew the meaning of cannon. However, they had brought none themselves; and as Chanzu came in sight, Gordon saw the Taipings leaving the city.
Li was delighted, and conferred on him the Order of the Yellow Button. His troops grinned and strutted; they had taken the town without a bit of risk, or a musket fired.
On the other hand, they weren't allowed to loot. Many deserted.
Immediately after, Li summoned Gordon. The summons rankled, but Gordon knew better than to refuse a senior officer, which Li was, in effect. The governor's expression was masked, his face impassive. "I have had a communication from Prince Kung. He commands me to reinstate Burgevine as commander of the Ever-Victorious Army."
Gordon stared. "What?" Then he recovered his composure. "Surely, sir, I have proved my worth!"
"Thoroughly," Li agreed, "and it is a hundred times that of Burgevine's. I will not conceal from you, Major Gordon, that I have no use for foreign devils—but you are superior in manner and bearing to any of those with whom I have the ill-fortune to come into contact, and you at least mask that conceit which makes most of them repugnant in my sight. I consider you a direct blessing from Heaven."
Gordon held his face immobile while he adjusted to the shock and delight, then said, "I thank Your Excellency. But why, then . . ."
"Burgevine shall remain where he is," said Li, "far from Shanghai. I have been entrusted with the governance of this province, and Prince Kung has no authority to countermand me unless he finds me totally unworthy of my post, whereupon he may replace me. I have refused his request."
Gordon went back to his tent and wrote to the British Legation in Peking, saying, "I must distinctly decline any further doings with any Chinese forces." Li learned of it, and persuaded him; Gordon changed his mind. Li commanded him to march on Taitsan.
The Taiping commander there had offered to defect to the Imperialists with all his garrison. Li sent a force to take over the town—and the Taipings fell upon Li's troops, killing thirty and taking three hundred prisoner. Gordon was to avenge this treachery.
Gordon packed his three thousand remaining men into small gunboats, shepherded by the Hyson. He surrounded the town and blocked all but the Eastern exit, which led towards the sea. Unable to escape and knowing they would be executed for treachery, the Taipings fought with grim desperation. Gordon's cannon pounded their stockade, and in only three hours, had opened a huge breach in the wall. Gordon rushed his infantry forward in their gunboats. The captains brought the vessels as close as they could, then the howling troops poured out to charge the breach. But spears rained from the wall, and musket-fire crackled in an unending series as bullets battered down at them. The charge wavered, then receded.
Gordon rallied them with shouts and gestures with his cane; they understood few of his words, but comprehended his tone. Gordon held them in position while his howitzers raked the walls and cut down the defenders. After a storm of shot, he charged forward, his infantry behind him with muskets, following the madman who threatened the Taipings with nothing but a rattan cane; they could not know that he hoped one of the balls would strike him down as he fought to free the Chinese from a rule more tyrannical than that of the Manchus.
But as one rank of Taipings fell from the blasting of Gordon's howitzers, another popped up in its place, firing down at the attackers. Still the Ever-Victorious Army came up to the breach—but it filled with Taiping defenders, stabbing with spears and slashing with swords. Gordon's men blocked and thrust in their turn, the clank and clash of steel riding high over the staccato musketry. Incredibly, the Taipings managed to force Gordon's men back from the walls.
Gordon retreated again and rallied his men while his cannon battered at the defenders atop their wall and by the breach. Then Gordon waved his cane, shouting, and charged out again. Howling, his infantry pelted after him.
The Taipings filled the breach with steel, but Gordon laid about him with his cane, and his men shot their way in with musket and pistol, then chopped at the ranks with swords and stabbed with bayonets. Taipings died left and right; so did Gordon's men. But, somehow, the Taipings gave way; suddenly, there were no more of the long-haired rebels in front of them, and Gordon and his men surged on into the town.
The Taiping casualties were great, very great. For his part, Gordon had lost almost one man out of ten. But he was deeply impressed with the courage and loyalty of the Chinese, both the Taipings and those in his own army. He found them quick to learn, and ready and willing to follow him into battle. They were very courageous—in some instances. They would outdo even his Europeans for bravery.
But again, Gordon prohibited looting, and made it stick. Worse, when the decimated army returned to base, he threw them right into stiff training for the next battle; he'd already been told they were to march on Quinsan. There were rumbles of mutiny when the soldiers found they weren't to have a few weeks of R & R. When he announced the marching orders, every officer resigned. The next morning, when Gordon ordered the army to parade in marching order, no one came, except his own bodyguard.
Gordon already knew who the probable ringleaders were; he arrested them instantly, and clapped them into irons. Then he announced that he and his bodyguards were leaving for Quinsan; they would pause halfway, and anyone who did not answer at afternoon roll-call would be dismissed.
Most of them answered at roll call. The others would not be missed.
A Taiping general named Ching had defected to the Imperialists. Governor Li knew just how formidable he had been as an enemy, and gave him general's rank, and an Imperial army. At Quinsan, General Ching determined to attack the eastern gate. Gordon disagreed—the eastern gate was the most strongly fortified, and the western gate would be the Taipings escape route to Soochow, where a larger Taiping garrison waited. So Gordon left Ching to attack the eastern gate and took the Hyson and his gunboats toward the western gate. Before he arrived, though, the Taipings proved him right—they began to march out through the western gate. Gordon fired a few shots, left half his army to guard the gate and keep the rebels penned, then set off after the retreating Taipings. As darkness fell, he gave up the chase and turned back; but as his gunboats approached the western gate, gunshots battered at his ears. As he came up to the half of his army left on guard, he saw a huge mass boiling out through the western gate—all the rest of the Taiping garrison trying to break through his lines in a body and retreat to Soochow, eight thousand strong.
It sickened him, but Gordon was outnumbered more than two to one. He gave the orders; the Hyson's cannon boomed, and the howitzers echoed her. Shot and ball tore apart the Taiping ranks. They broke and ran every which way—but they did not retreat back into Quinsan.
Gordon fired, and fired again and again, sickened by what he knew he was doing, but seeing no alternative—any other course of action, and the Taipings would have swept his little army away. All through the night his guns pounded; finally, Taipings began to go back into the city.
Dawn showed him a field of corpses.
Gordon knew that his men regarded their base in Sungkiang as their haven for rest and recreation, most of it immoral and all of it damaging to discipline—so he set up a now headquarters in Quinsan. The men didn't like it; the first time he ordered parade, the artillery regiment stayed in their quarters. They did, however, send a message threatening to turn their guns on their European officers, and on any of the Chinese enlisted men who sided with Gordon.
That was flat-out mutiny. Gordon knew better than to try to laugh it off. He ordered the artillery men out and lined them up, his officers around them with their weapons cocked and ready.
"Who dreamed up this treacherous notion of blasting away us officers?" Gordon demanded.
The artillerymen glanced at the Europeans who held their guns at the ready, but no one answered.
Gordon's jaw firmed. "I will have one man in every five shot for mutiny!"
A mournful groan rose from the ranks.
One corporal in the front row was groaning louder and faster than any. Gordon stepped forward, seized the man, and spun him out of ranks toward his own bodyguard. "Shoot him!"
Two of Gordon's men pinned the man's arms and forced him to his knees. A third drew his pistol, pointed it at the man's heart, and fired.
The groaning ceased. The artillerymen stared in shock.
Gordon surveyed them, his face grim. "You are all under arrest! Give me the ringleader's name within the hour, or I shall carry out my threat and execute every fifth man!"
The ringleader was delivered up and executed within the hour. But the next morning, there were many fewer men on parade, and by the end of the week, two thousand of Gordon's troops had deserted.
After all, if there was to be no loot, no rape, and only pay that was late—why stay?
Gordon understood only too well. He wrote to Li, complaining that the Imperial paymasters had fallen behind in paying the troops, and resigned the command of the Ever-Victorious Army. So saying, he bade farewell to his troops and returned to Shanghai.
There, he found out that Burgevine had recruited hundreds of rascals and defected to the Taipings.
Gordon went back to Quinsan immediately, sure that if he were not there to hold them, the remnants of the Ever-Victorious Army would follow Burgevine into the enemy camp.
But the Taipings' doom was clear for all to see now, and the Ever-Victorious Army had no wish to die with them, or with its old commander. Finally, two months later, Gordon's pickets brought in a peasant with a secret message: Burgevine had not been greeted with delight by the Taipings, and had not been appointed to a high post. He asked Gordon's help in escaping.
Gordon provided the men and the cover. Burgevine stepped into his tent with a wide grin to thank him, then went on to say, "Here now, we're the best two commanders in the East, and you know it. Let's make common cause, and leave these Imperials and Taipings to kill each other off! We'll take the Ever-Victorious Army to Peking, seize the Dragon Throne, and be emperors ourselves over the richest nation on earth!"
Gordon could scarcely believe his ears. Had Burgevine s drinking finally caused him to become demented? "I must politely refuse," he said. "I am a British officer, and cannot forsake my position. But I will assist you in as many respects as I can."
What he could do, was to give Burgevine a safe-conduct and an escort back to Shanghai—and to hand the escort a letter for the American Consul, requesting that Burgevine leave China without delay.
Tseng Kuo-Fan's generals had pushed the Taipings back from west, north, and south; Li had pushed them in from the east, and they were crowded into Nanking, surrounded by Imperial troops. Ward's mercenary army could have been a difficult and unpredictable problem for Li, but Gordon had resolved it. Only one other city remained in Taiping hands: Soochow, on the east. Reducing it was Li's job. Gordon was eager to take the Ever-Victorious Army to capture the city, and Li was only too happy to let him.
Gordon replaced his deserters with Taiping prisoners, who were happy to be out of prison with their heads still on their shoulders, and to have an opportunity to earn good money into the bargain. Gordon wasn't completely sure that they wouldn't go over to the enemy, so he had his officers watch them closely. Gordon's riverboats and artillery blasted his way through ranks of Taipings to Soochow, and he soon had every gate blocked.
The Taiping officers commanding the garrison knew they had no chance left. Only one of them refused to surrender; they handled the problem neatly with a knife in his back and a sword through his neck. Then they sent word to General Ching, offering to surrender on terms. He promised to spare their lives, and those of their men. They opened the eastern gate to him, and the Imperial troops marched in. As soon as the garrison was secured, they fell to looting, including the women and girls, and butchering anyone who got in their way.
Gordon would have none of it for the Ever-Victorious Army. He packed them aboard their steamers and went back down the canal to Quinsan, to Li's advance headquarters, where he demanded a bonus of two months full pay to replace the loot he had not allowed them to take. Li agreed to give them a single month's bonus, and invited Gordon to attend the formal surrender of the Soochow garrison. Indignant, Gordon declined—which was just as well, since Ching beheaded the nine Taiping commanders.
For two months, Gordon wrangled with Li over this treacherous action, but Ching was too valuable to the governor, and he would not censure the former Taiping, but took the blame himself. Finally, having exonerated Gordon completely, he managed to pacify him and persuade him to aid in the steady, relentless advance on Nanking, acre by acre and town by town.
At Kintan, Gordon finally gained part of his wish—he was hit by a bullet, but only in the leg. Then came news that a Taiping commander had sallied out of Nanking and was trying to retake Quinsan. Gordon ignored his wound and took his army east to cut off the Taiping advance. He took their flying column unaware and chased them back toward Nanking. Then he joined up with Li's troops and moved on Changchow.
Changchow was a very tough nut to crack. His cannon made the breach well enough—the wall crumbled under the pounding of ball after cannon ball—but the Taipings held the gap against two storming charges. On the other side of the town, Li met with similar resistance.
Now Gordon showed his engineering skill. Under cover of night, his men dug trenches with breastworks, through which soldiers could file, safe from enemy fire, unobserved, until they spilled out only a few yards from the breach. At dawn, his artillery began a continuous bombardment which lasted all morning.
The guns blasted from the bows of the river boats behind them, beating in a heavy rhythm, blasting Taipings back and away from the breach in the wall of Changchow. Gordon shouted and waved his cane for the bombardment to cease, then waved it overhead as he plunged ahead, limping, but leading the charge. Two thousand throats echoed his shout, and the Ever-Victorious Army plunged after him, a motley collection of Americans, Frenchmen, Germans, Chinese, even a few British. As the guns fell silent, Gordon's men poured out of the trenches and through the breach as musket balls flew all about them, from the long-haired Taiping defenders on top of the wall. Men fell on each side of him, and Gordon yearned for a musket ball to strike him, but none did. Leading the charge with no weapon but his rattan cane, Gordon leaped up on the lump of rubble, his army behind him . . .
And stopped, galvanized, staring into the muzzle of a 32-pounder cannon.
Time seemed to stop for him; he braced himself, and a gush of relief shot loose within him, for the death he had longed for had certainly come . . .
"We cannot have that!" Wayland the Smith reached out an unseen hand to the firing mechanism. "This son of our kind has much to do for us yet!"
The Taiping pulled the chain, the hammer fell—and the flint broke.
Gordon stood galvanized, the moan of fear behind him transforming into a shout of victory as his men poured through on either side of him and pounced on the gun-crew, bearing them down. Behind them, the rest of his little army streamed through the breach.
Gordon stood like a rock around which the flow parted, going limp inside—with disappointment. He would not be relieved of the burden of life after all.
He disbanded the Ever-Victorious Army soon after; none of them watched the armies of Tseng Kuo-Fan slaughter the tottering, starving remnants of the great Taiping army.
As the English newspapers told it, though, Gordon was not only there—he also defeated the Taipings almost single-handed.
Hung Hsiu-Chuan swallowed wine mixed with gold leaf, and died—but Gordon did not.
"We have our hero made," said Tyr, "and England has followed him in their hearts. The Taipings are no longer."
Odin nodded. "It is well done."
In the distance, Shang-Ti lay limp and exhausted in his great golden throne—but his subordinate deities were gathering around him again.
The mad heathen nightmare was ended; the eerie slide of sing-song speech still echoed in his head, the flames of burning villages still glared in his mind's eye; so Gordon walked by the sea at Gravesend, where the Army had sent him to build new forts that he knew very well would do nothing to protect London if a seaborne invader approached. He had told the War office of this, too, but they had ignored his advice, as his superiors always seemed to, so he was going ahead and doing his duty, and trying to get it done with as quickly as possible; but a few days into the new task, the news had come that his father had died.
So he walked by the sea.
In anxiety and depression, he walked through night, even though the sun was shining, looking about him for distraction, for insight. Gordon felt the old terror still lying there, knew it, and disregarded it; already he was restless, yearned for more work . . .
And there he was, the one-handed man, bent over the simple cookfire, and the spitted haunch that revolved over it.
How like to Father he seemed!
Gordon stepped up by the ring of stones, looking down at the furs, at the shoulder-length hair, the bronze circlet that held it—for surely, yes, it must be bronze, and Gordon had begun to suspect who the old man must be, though he could not admit it, admit any such superstition, not he, who was so devoted to God.
But the grizzled head lifted, the clear gaze pierced to his brain, while Gordon realized, amazed, that he did not look so old now, no, not nearly so old as he had ten years before. The old face held itself immobile, but under the long moustaches, the mouth moved and said,
"Welcome home, Chinese Gordon."
"Do not mock me so!" Gordon cried. "You know it was not glory that I sought!"
"I know," the one-handed man agreed, "but your people do not. They need heroes, Gordon. You must serve them in this.'
"I must serve none but God! I have no wish to be lionized. You know what I support!"
"Yes—death. Are you so hungry for it, then, with your father so recently gone to it?"
"More than ever!" How could the old man know so much about him? "If he has gone, why should I remain behind?"
"For glory," the old man said simply, "if not for yourself, then for your God."
Gordon met his gaze levelly. "Will He release me from the burdens of this life, then?"
"I have told you that you shall find death in the East," the old man reminded him. "I did not say you would find it soon."
"But how am I . . . !" Gordon bit off the cry of distress, unwilling to show any weakness.
"How can you walk, without your father's hand to uphold you?" The old man's gaze never wavered. "Lean upon your God."
A huge peace flooded Gordon's soul, a well of strength brimmed within him. He stared at the old man, realizing how true his words were, how completely right. "Thank you."
"It is as it should be. Do you still wish death?"
The yearning blazed forth with an intensity that was almost frightening. "Yes!"
"If you are so not for it, then, kill yourself!" It was challenge, a dare.
Gordon stood rigid, anger in his eyes. "I cannot. Suicide is a sin; I would lose Heaven, I would go to Hell. I must be killed by another, and be killed in a worthy cause, giving my life for the welfare of others, even as Our Lord gave his for us!"
"Then continue the hunt."
Gordon's heart leaped. "There is quarry again?"
"Not for England." The one-handed man glanced down at the empty fire-ring. "But for you . . . ?" He looked up again. "You will always find a way to a war. If there is none, you will make it."
And, gaze unwavering, he faded from sight.
Gordon stood frozen, staring at the cold ashes of the fire, feeling the chill again, but not the thrill.
Then, slowly, he turned away to the sea, numb to the heart, realizing that his soul must have needed a great deal more healing . . .
And sorely disappointed that the hunt was done.
He saw the one-handed man again, fifteen years later, as he walked by the sea, newly returned from Egypt, where he had done such excellent work for the Khedive—excellent, but so well done that he had stirred up his own small war against the slave-traders who toiled their heart-sick goods across the wastes of the Sudean. But though he had found war, he had found few willing to fight him . . .
And he had not found death.
He walked by the water, a man in his middle years, but still hale and hearty with the iron regimen he forced upon himself—careful diet, punishing exercises. He looked up toward the rising land, and noticed a man bent over a fire. With a shock, he recognized the skins, the bronze circlet. Surely this could not be the same man, though, for he no longer seemed old, no older than Gordon himself . . .
But the head lifted, the piercing-eyed gaze stabbed into him, and Gordon saw it was the same man.
"Dine with me, Gordon."
Slowly, Gordon sat by the fire. He wrinkled his nose at the smell of the meat; he knew it too well, now: goat. "What of the hunt?"
"There will be good hunting indeed. Would you be the hunter, or the quarry?"
Gordon felt excitement surge, and an echo of the old familiar terror—but only an echo, now, and his ancient greed was stronger than ever, almost desperate. "The hunter, by choice," he said slowly.
"Do you truly care?"
"Nay." Gordon almost smiled, discovering with surprise and delight that it was true. "So that it be for the Lord, I wish only the hunt."
"Then you shall have it. The lion stands at bay." The one-handed man rose, and turned away.
Gordon did not watch him go. Slowly, he took the spit from the fire.
"Egyptians?" Sutekh spat. "These weaklings are nothing compared to the Egyptians of old! The Ansar who follow this Mahdi, now—they are worthy successors to the ancients who worshipped me as their war-god! There is so little left of their blood left, in these Turkish and Arab creatures to the north, that I have no love for them. But the Mahdi is their successor in heart, at least—worthy to follow the Pharaohs of the First Dynasty! He shall hurl your pale Northern worms out of the Nile Valley; he shall grind them to paste!"
Tyr stood alone against Sutekh, and laughed. His good hand twitched, but Sutekh did not strike—yet.
Gordon saw the one-handed man for the last time, as he stood on the steps at Khartoum, watching the horses and camels boil up out of the desert, their riders screaming and brandishing their swords.
"The Khedive told you only to withdraw the troops, Gordon."
Gordon looked up in surprise, quickly masked. "Can you walk outside England, then?"
"It is rare that I have any wish to. You should have withdrawn the troops."
Gordon said evenly, " England should never retreat."
"Death is your wish, Gordon, not theirs."
Gordon's gaze faltered. "I know. I should have sent them away, should have stood here alone—but I was sure England would send an army to bear me home, in spite of Gladstone and his Liberals!"
"Even as you said—the people forced his hand," the one-handed man corroborated. "The people, and the newspapers. The army comes—but its vanguard will not arrive for two more days."
Gordon bowed his head. "My soul is heavy with their deaths."
"But light, with your own?"
"England must never retreat!"
"Then England will be hacked to bits."
Gordon gave the one-eyed man a long, level gaze, amazed to realize that the stare of those eyes no longer stabbed into him. "That is acceptable. Bloodied, but indomitable."
The one-handed man held his gaze, and nodded. "The Lion does not retreat where he has made his den. But what good can he do if he is slain? What good is your death?"
"As good as my life," Gordon retorted. "If I am slain, England must send an army to rescue my bones."
"It is even as you have said, Gordon of Khartoum," the one-handed man said, his eye gleaming with pride. "They shall come; in fourteen years, they shall avenge you. So much for England. What shall you achieve for Gordon?"
"Gordon matters not at all."
"Gordon shall find death," he one-handed man corrected. "Yet you have had glory, whether you wished it or not. In glory you have lived, and in glory you shall die."
Gordon did, as the Ansar swooped down upon him. The tribesmen came screaming into the garden, but checked at the sight of the tall, relaxed Englishman, one hand on his saber, the other on his revolver. The battle-lust reasserted itself; the tribesmen screamed, forgetting the Mahdi's orders that Gordon was not to he harmed, and the spear struck into his chest, spinning him around. Even as he fell, more spears found his body. Then a tribesman stepped up, and his sword swung down.
The Mahdi cried out in anguish when they showed him Gordon's head.
"The children of my heart have triumphed!" Sutekh exulted. "Begone, One-Hand—you have no place here!"
"Even so," Tyr said, as imperturbable as ever. "I go—but I shall come again."
And he did.