The Rebellion Engines

by Jeannie Lin

  “Then I’m going with you to Shanghai,” I told him.

  He turned to me, his expression unreadable. “Alright.”

  I looked ahead to the city, trying to imagine what it was that he was seeing. The responsibility he must have felt on his shoulders to see this to the end.

  When we had returned from Japan, we’d made a vow that we would take this journey together. This was before his marriage proposal. The vow was made before a lot of things, but it still held true.

  “I know you asked Hanzhu to persuade me to stay,” I told him.

  He didn’t deny it. The two of them really did have an interesting relationship.

  Hanzhu’s proposal had been tempting. Stay among friends. Don’t think about Shanghai and leave what would happen next to fate, but I didn’t believe in fate anymore.

  The last time I’d seen my father, he’d held my hand and told me he had to go, accepting his fate calmly. Then I stayed while he left. My father had never come back.

  I couldn’t leave Chang-wei alone now, surrounded by enemies and questionable allies in territory that the foreigners had seized from us. He had to be able to trust someone. We had no one else but each other.

  Part III

  Shanghai

  Chapter 17

  The flagship approached the wharf on the north shore of the Huangpu River. We docked ahead of the river bend that led to the main part of the foreign settlement, allowing us to avoid the busiest section of the port. Even so, the Shanghai waterfront was a teaming, bustling place. We arrived in the late afternoon, just hours before sundown. Laborers were still hard at work loading and unloading.

  The Yingguoren said that trade was the reason they had fought the war. The foreigners had demanded access to our ports. They wanted a favorable arrangement. But the crucial point was they wanted freedom to sell their opium. Their only cause was profit.

  Even after the war, the opium trade remained illegal by imperial decree, but the Qing authorities could do little to enforce it at the treaty ports. The Westerners even enlisted companies run by our own countrymen to distribute the opium. That was the cruelest part of the enterprise — we were made party to our own destruction.

  The rebellion in the Old City had further eroded Qing authority. The port in the concession remained functional, albeit under foreign control. With a combination of confusion and the right connections, a vessel could slip into the settlement by water, landing ridiculously close to the walls of Old Shanghai.

  Fortunately, Chang-wei had a long-time associate in the treaty port. A westerner named Dean Burton who Chang-wei had met during his time among the foreigners. I’d encountered Burton the first time I’d come to the foreign concession in Shanghai. I’d never met one of the so-called “foreign devils” before.

  As soon as we docked, a foreign official came to account for our arrival. Chang-wei produced papers, paid the customs fee and whatever bribes or gifts had been agreed to. As Yang had said, there was a lot of looking the other way.

  The ground seemed to shift as I set foot on the shore, but it was only an illusion. My body had become accustomed to adjusting to the sway of the ocean, my senses compensating without thought. Now, on a steady surface, I continued to bob and wave expecting the rolling motion of the waves. Soon the feeling would pass and the journey by sea would be another memory.

  I looked up toward the bow in a final farewell, but it stood empty. Yang Hanzhu had disappeared deep into the hold. He and his crew were itching to return to open water. There would be no coming ashore for drink and merriment here.

  After the cursory customs inspection, we were met by a work crew led by Chang-wei’s associate. Dean Burton was what one would expect from a foreigner. Yellow-haired and tall, with squared features. His shoulders were wide and draped in heavy fabric, elaborately sewn to accentuate those sharp angles. He removed a boxy-looking hat as he approached and flashed a grin that exposed a row of even white teeth.

  “John,” he said, in his peculiar Western way of mispronouncing Chang-wei’s name. They reached out to clasp hands. I didn’t understand his next statement, but it was accompanied by a glance upward to the mast which had only been partially repaired. The long tear ran down the red sail like a jagged scar.

  It was a shock to see Chang-wei conversing in the foreigners’ language. From what I gathered, most of the foreign traders in Shanghai spoke Yingyu along with a mix of other tongues.

  “Miss Jin.” Burton greeted me with a tilt of his head that wasn’t quite a bow. I was surprised he remembered me after our one brief meeting.

  “So honored to see you again, Miss Jin. You’re tired from your journey. I’ve prepared lodging for your people.”

  Burton spoke a mix of Canton dialect and mainland Mandarin. His speech was oddly accented, but I could understand him well enough.

  “Your Chinese has improved,” I remarked.

  He laughed at that, the sound thunderous in my ears. Burton was certainly a person who was comfortable taking up space in all dimensions.

  “I have more opportunity to practice now so many people have come here.”

  A team of dock workers gathered to unload the cargo. Kai and Chang-wei’s engineers moved to assist the men as they loaded the crates onto the back of a mechanical wagon. Burton had arranged for two transports to carry the shipment. From what I understood, Burton’s business shipped and moved a variety of goods. Meiguo, or America as the Westerners called it, also had less visibility than the other major powers in the settlement. It made for the perfect cover.

  As Burton and Chang-wei discussed logistics, I noticed the Chinese woman standing behind Burton. She looked familiar to me though I couldn’t place when or where we would have met. She stood with spine straight, eyes watchful. Her hair was pulled back and pinned elegantly. She was dressed in a long-sleeved tunic with a series of silk frogs fastened in the front. A wide sash wrapped around her waist and her top was fitted over loose trousers. Burton called her forward to ask something, referring to her as ‘Miss Wei.’ From the ease of her movements, I could tell her feet weren’t bound.

  Miss Wei took care of directing the laborers as they unloaded the cargo and packed the wagons. Unlike Burton, she was able to communicate fluently with the workmen. Once the crates were secured, Kai and the engineers remained with the precious shipment while Chang-wei and I joined Burton in his steam carriage.

  I seated myself in back and Miss Wei took the seat beside mine. She looked me over in one efficiently dispensed glance, nodded once, and then faced forward. I stared at her striking profile, with her long face and shapely nose, and was once again caught by the feeling we’d met before.

  “A lot of changes since you were here before,” Burton told Chang-wei as he wound a crank to prime the boiler.

  I could hear the whir of a belt starting up. As the motor roared to life, Burton hopped into the driver’s seat. Chang-wei arranged himself up front beside him.

  The carriage was of Western design. It was steam-powered with a bass cylinder and pump assembly in the back of the transport. Once sufficient pressure built-up, the vehicle started forward.

  “Mister Burton,” I called, raising my voice to be heard above the motor. “If it’s not too much trouble, can I send a message to Peking from here?”

  Burton regarded me over his shoulder. “Our airships and transports aren’t allowed beyond the treaty port, but Miss Wei can assist you in finding a courier.”

  Chang-wei shot me a curious look. I didn’t want to trouble him with a letter that was meant for my mother. Hanzhu’s theories about the cessation pills were just one part of his ongoing obsession with opium. At least that’s what I told myself. Theory or not, it wouldn’t cause any harm to warn Mother of potential danger.

  I looked out the window as we rolled through the streets. The biggest difference was immediately apparent. The foreign concession had become crowded with Zhongguoren, with Chinese. Two years ago, it wasn’t completely rare to see native Chinese in the foreign settle
ment, but we were there as servants and laborers. Now the streets were crowded with Chinese living among foreigners. Native people with braided queues and loose jackets and trousers walked among Westerners with pale-skin dressed in stiff, buttoned-up layers.

  “Since the Small Swords took over Old Shanghai, we’ve had a flood of people from the city as well as the surrounding areas,” Burton explained. “It feels like we’re taking refugees into the concession every day.”

  “Refugees — in our very own country,” Miss Wei remarked pointedly.

  “Well, the municipal council takes care of putting them somewhere,” Burton replied, either ignoring Miss Wei’s remark or dismissing it completely. “The council is also responsible for policing, watching over things. Keeping the settlement safe.”

  The young woman’s eyes narrowed at that.

  “Building construction had been going at a tornado pace,” Burton continued.

  “That phrase might not translate well to our language,” Chang-wei mused.

  Burton laughed. “Right. Typhoon? Hurricane?” He cycled through words, finally hitting upon the correct one. “Whirlwind. Very fast. Dwellings are being set up in a matter of days. The settlement is quickly becoming overcrowded.”

  “And Mister Burton has gotten wealthier by the hour because of it.” Miss Wei played with her manicured nails as if sharpening knives.

  “Some would say that American outspokenness has made an impression on Miss Wei, but she’s actually been this way the entire time I’ve known her,” Burton replied cheerfully.

  He turned to Miss Wei and made an expression by closing then opening one eye. Miss Wei did not return his smile even the slightest. All-in-all, a confusing exchange.

  We continued on to a large brick building that Burton explained was one of his warehouses. The cargo was unloaded and secured inside and the movers were paid for their work before being sent off. Burton then dispatched his own people along with Kai and the engineers to an early supper.

  “They must be famished after such hard work,” he suggested amiably. Only when it was the four of us inside the warehouse did Burton start in on our purpose for being there. “There are some nuances you should be aware of before you do whatever it is you mean to do.”

  Miss Wei made a point of wandering some distance away, perhaps out of politeness. I stayed where I was beside Chang-wei.

  “The French have declared support for the Qing government. The British consulate has tried to remain neutral.”

  He used a different word to refer to the Yingguoren. I was able to follow the conversation after some initial confusion.

  “For right now, the Americans are of the same mind as the British. Staying out of any direct involvement, though there have been individuals joining up with the insurrectionists.”

  “What of the firearms sold to the rebels?” Chang-wei brought up.

  Burton paused. “I haven’t heard anything of that.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Miss Wei’s spine stiffened. She appeared to be inspecting a stack of smaller crates that had been pushed against one wall.

  “From British traders,” Chang-wei pressed. “And American as well. The Small Swords wouldn’t be able to hold out in the walled city without outside support.”

  Burton let out a breath. “You need to remember that regardless of where the municipal council stand in regards to this uprising, the council is wary of giving imperial forces too much leeway. There was an altercation several months back when the Qing army attempted to set up camp too close to the border of the foreign settlement.”

  “It’s a battle for territory,” Chang-wei acknowledged soberly.

  Burton nodded. “A dilemma for sure, but the Shanghai council is starting to sour on this rebellion. The overcrowding and this messy business of Western forces on both sides, fighting amongst each other. Rebel skirmishes are starting to interfere with trade. It’s especially a problem if their armies intend to attack more treaty ports. I think your timing is good, just be careful of how you position yourself. Oh, and I can’t have anything to do with this.”

  “Of course,” Chang-wei assured.

  Burton grasped his shoulder in a brotherly manner. “It’s good to see you again, John. Don’t get yourself killed, alright?”

  I later broke away from the group accompanied by Miss Wei. We were off to seek out a courier service that would deliver to Peking. Miss Wei moved confidently through the lanes in long, powerful strides while I made an effort to keep up.

  In Peking, we would be called big-footed. It was a common custom among the Han for women to have their feet bound when they were very young. Bound feet served as a social signal in polite company. Miss Wei not having her feet wrapped tight could mean a number of things.

  She could be Manchu like I was. The rebels were notably hostile toward people of Manchu ethnicity and she might have fled to the foreign settlement to escape persecution.

  Another possibility was that she was Han, but her family didn’t follow the practice. My mother’s family was Han, but they’d never bound her feet. As an only child, she was needed to work in the family paper mill. Binding Mother’s feet would have been impractical, especially as she was never expected to marry. Perfect lotus feet were meant to attract a husband from a good family.

  The final consideration was Western influence. Miss Wei had a firm grasp of Western customs and language. Perhaps she’d grown up among them. It was my understanding that Westerners found foot-binding very disturbing.

  Whatever her story was, Miss Wei carried herself with authority among the workmen and even seemed to assert control over Burton himself. Burton had assured me it was perfectly safe for Miss Wei and I to go unaccompanied to the courier’s office.

  “Everyone in all the alleyways knows not to give Miss Wei any trouble. I’m a bit afraid of her myself,” he’d told me, grinning.

  As we wove through the streets, I became more and more curious about that statement. We passed by a group of not-entirely-upstanding looking men. They eyed us darkly as we passed, but Miss Wei breezed by without a moment’s pause while I hurried along after her like a duckling trailing after its mother.

  “There are several courier companies with land routes to Peking every couple days,” she explained. “Going by airship will cost you more.”

  “Airship,” I replied before remembering what Burton had said. “Are airships allowed to leave out of the foreign concession?”

  “Only approved vessels. They’re all captained by our countrymen. Of course, everything will be scrutinized by imperial agents at some point. It will cost extra to bypass that.”

  “That won’t be necessary. It’s just a letter to my mother.” I wanted to let Mother know we were safe, as well as warn her about the cessation pills. I’d written the letter before we’d docked, using generalities as Chang-wei had warned.

  “You’re from Peking,” Miss Wei said curiously.

  “Many people are from Peking.” In turn, I was curious to know more about her methods for circumventing the authorities. “Forgive me, but I keep having the feeling that we’ve met before.”

  “Ah, so you do remember,” she replied with a sly smile. “I used to work as a hostess at a drinking house called the Dragon’s Den. It was a gathering place for foreigners. When we first me, I warned you to be careful about trusting Dean Burton and Chen Chang-wei. I see you didn’t heed my warning.”

  “I see you didn’t either,” I countered.

  “Yes, well.” She made a face. “I didn’t expect the Old City to fall to a bunch of street gangs. Or for me to get stuck on the other side in the foreign settlement. I’m Wei Ming-fen.”

  “Jin Soling.”

  Ming-fen was much friendlier now that she was alone with me. Perhaps her snappish demeanor was merely a reaction to being out of place in the foreign settlement.

  We moved down the alleyway, passing door after door on either side, very close together. A few were propped open, revealing tiny, one-room dwellings. At th
e far end, the alley opened up to a corner with shops and businesses. Once more, it was as if I had been transported to some faraway land.

  The signboards were in Yingyu. The Westerners favored an orderly, stacked appearance to their buildings. There was a sense of pattern and sameness — one window after another in rows. Once we moved past that block, we were thrown into yet a different world. Here were the cluttered shops and hanging signboards of a Chinese city, an opportunistic space where every empty spot was filled. Vendors poured onto the streets with baskets. There were paper notices plastered on the walls.

  The courier service operated inside a small door tucked in behind a printing house. I left my letter with the clerk at the counter and paid with a few cash coins.

  “Burton, he isn’t so bad,” she admitted as we started back. “Or he’s no worse than any other foreigner. He’s been trying to help me. I don’t have anyone else in this part of Shanghai.”

  “That must be difficult.”

  The rebellion had cut her off from her old life to throw her into this world between worlds.

  “Were you working at the drinking house when the uprising started?”

  Gradually, I pieced together the last time I’d seen Ming-fen. She had worn a scandalously form-fitting silk dress. Her lips had been painted a vibrant festival red.

  I had considered, at the time, that she might be a prostitute.

  “It was actually Burton who was caught on the other side in the Old City,” Ming-fen explained. “I was trying to help him to safety. He had no idea about anything—” She stopped, letting out a sigh. “It started with the major street gangs banding together. Then the Taiping rebels got involved. I keep waiting for things to go back to how they were, but it’s been over a year now.”

  “Do you have family in the Old City?” I asked, seeing the look of loss on her face.

  She didn’t answer and I immediately regretted asking something so personal. “It must have been frightening to witness the fall of Old Shanghai,” I said to fill the silence.