The Secret Adventures of Charlotte Brontë
Page 26
“I did not leave Canton at once,” Kuan continued. “The war required the military expertise I’d gained at my previous post. I stayed until the next spring. During that time, the British captured our forts and occupied Hong Kong. Their ships roved the Canton delta, sinking war junks and destroying defenses, then mounted an assault on the waterfront. Thousands of citizens fled Canton. Thieves looted abandoned houses. The troops I commanded built batteries along the shore, mounted guns, and fired on the British . . . in vain. British troops disembarked in May 1841 and amassed outside the city wall.”
His mesmeric voice fostered in me visions of a city in chaotic peril. I saw the flames, smelled the smoke; I heard the screams of people fleeing the horde that besieged them.
“A general panic ensued,” Kuan said. “Soldiers deserted their posts and plundered the city. Riots broke out. The governor of Canton called a meeting of his officials. I advised that we continue fighting. I reasoned that although the British were likely to take Canton, they could not conquer all of China; they would weaken before they reached the interior. But other officials advised negotiating a truce.”
Kuan grimaced in contempt. “Their cowardice prevailed, and I, the lone dissenter, was ordered to leave for my new post. That evening, while the British clamored outside the city wall and the officials prepared to accept defeat, I hurried about town, settling my affairs. My son T’ing-nan and my personal retinue of ten men accompanied me. When we arrived home late at night . . .”
Kuan paused, and I perceived that powerful emotions were getting the best of his customary self-control. I sat alert, sensing that his story was approaching its climactic revelation. Rising, he said, “Come with me, Miss Brontë. I wish to show you something.”
He led me to the room next door. It was unfurnished except for a table upon which stood a miniature framed portrait, painted in Oriental style, of a pretty Chinese woman and two little girls, dressed in bright, exotic costume, their hair studded with ornaments. Candles flamed before the portrait. A brass vessel held sticks of smoking incense. At last I identified the source of the perfume in this house and in the Belgian chateau.
“These are my wife, Beautiful Jade, and my young daughters, Precious Jade and Pure Jade,” said Kuan. “That night I arrived home to find them brutally murdered.”
Reader, these were the murders I described earlier. I learned of them from Kuan, at this moment in my tale, and his spell and my imagination breathed life into his recital of the facts. Now I was to discover how the murders had set in motion the events I experienced.
“They lay slashed to death, awash in blood, in the wreckage of the bedchamber,” Kuan said in a tone of deliberate detachment as we contemplated the funeral altar. “While I was gone, the servants had deserted my estate, leaving my wife and daughters alone. Someone had entered the mansion and slaughtered them.”
The entirety of his motive for relating the events of his life to me became clear at last. Kuan wanted to engage my sympathy for his cause. A part of me understood that he was manipulating me; yet I couldn’t but pity a man who’d lost his family by violence.
“On the wall, written in their blood, was the insignia of a secret society whose members traded in opium,” Kuan said. “The insignia was their notice to me that they had murdered my family as revenge for my crusade against them.”
Alas, his portrayal of himself as a hero and martyr was having the desired effect upon me, even as I knew him to be a murderous blackguard himself!
“Had I been home,” said Kuan, “they would have killed me, too, and collected the price offered for my death. As I fell to my knees beside my wife and children—as I howled in grief—I felt rage leap like flames within me. My spirit demanded retribution. I wanted to punish the murderers for their crime, but how? I had no official standing in Canton; I couldn’t mount a search for the killers, nor order their execution.” The helplessness Kuan must have felt colored his tone. “And Canton had become a lawless place. What hope had I of justice?
“It was then that I broke the bonds of duty that I had honored all my life. I swore that I would pursue my family’s killers and deliver them to justice myself.” Kuan’s eyes glittered. “I removed the gown and cap that had signified my official rank. I gave my son into the care of a trusted friend. Then I armed myself, and the ten loyal men from my retinue, with muskets and swords. I prayed one last moment over my wife and daughters, and I promised them that I would avenge their deaths. Then my men and I went hunting for the killers. We tracked them to their opium dens and we shot them dead. I did not care that I had become an outlaw and murderer myself. All I cared for was to kill every last one of them.”
I pictured him and his henchmen bursting upon the surprised scoundrels, gunning them down amidst screams and blood. Though his remorseless violence horrified me, my spirit applauded him. I know what it is to hate someone with such venom, and I might have done similar harm to those who had wronged me, had I the power and not feared the consequences.
“During the next few days, we slew eighteen men,” Kuan said. “In that time, the Canton officials and the British negotiated a truce. It was agreed that China would pay six million pounds—an enormous sum—to the British. In return, the British would spare the city and withdraw their ships from the waterfront. Despite the blood on my hands, my need for vengeance remained unsatisfied. The deaths of eighteen miserable opium smugglers could not restore my wife and daughters to life. And China had suffered a terrible defeat.”
I thought that at last Kuan had explained why he’d left China. His womenfolk had been slain, his country humiliated; China harbored memories he must have longed to escape. I understood that Kuan, once a civilized, honorable man, had turned into a criminal because rage had twisted his mind. Yet still I didn’t know why he had chosen to come to Britain—or what he wanted with me. Before I could ask, Hitchman appeared.
“What do you want?” Kuan frowned in annoyance at Hitchman.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Hitchman said, “but I must speak to you. It cannot wait.”
The two of them went out to the corridor, where they exchanged low, urgent words. Then Kuan hurried down the stairs without bidding me farewell. Hitchman came to me.
“Kuan asked that you excuse his abrupt departure,” Hitchman said. “He’ll resume your conversation later. In the meantime, he wants you to remain in your room.”
As Hitchman escorted me there, not a word of explanation did he give; but clearly there was trouble. I would not learn until later what had happened—and later still, how its repercussions would ultimately put me in peril.
31
I LANGUISHED IN MY ROOM, WONDERING WHAT HAD HAPPENED. FOG swept in from the sea, and a malaise enshrouded the house, which was as silent as a tomb until that evening, when I heard footsteps. I went to the door, and to my surprise it opened at my turn of the knob; Hitchman had forgotten to lock it. I crept to the stairway and spied Kuan and Nick in the hall below.
“Have you found any sign of my son?” Kuan asked.
Nick shook his head.
“Keep looking,” said Kuan.
They parted company and disappeared from sight. I realized that T’ing-nan must have gotten out of the house and run away. Everyone was apparently occupied with bringing him back. I felt pity for the boy, who had lost his mother and was now abroad in a strange land, and for his father, too, because Branwell had taught me the torment that ensues when a loved one goes missing. But T’ing-nan’s disappearance spelled opportunity for me.
The clock struck eleven o’clock, its chimes echoing through the empty house. I dressed in my cloak and bonnet and stole downstairs. The front door was unlocked; preoccupation with finding T’ing-nan had rendered the household careless. Outside, the dense, swirling mist obscured my vision of anything beyond twenty paces distant. It muted the sea’s roar and settled upon me, damp and chill. As I hastened along the road towards Penzance, I had a disturbing sense of being watched. I paused to listen, but heard nothing.
“Mr. Slade!” I cried.
Mr. Slade immediately opened the door, pulled me inside, and held me while I sobbed from relief and lingering fright. “What are you doing here?” he said. “What’s happened?”
I became aware of his body’s heat warming me through the white shirt he wore, and my face pressed against the skin bared by his open collar. Embarrassed, I stepped away from him and tried to compose myself.
“I ran away,” I said, and explained the circumstances that had allowed my escape. “I had to see you.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” Mr. Slade said. “I’m even gladder to see you safe.”
His voice was rough yet gentle, his gaze warm with something more than the happiness felt by comrades reunited. Could it be that my absence, and the danger to my life, had increased his affection for me? Flustered, I turned my attention to my surroundings. We stood in a small room with whitewashed walls and a low, slanted ceiling. The window was open to vent smoke from the fireplace. A table held books, papers, and a burning lamp. There was one plain chair where Slade had apparently been sitting at the table, and an armchair in the corner.
“You must be tired,” he said. “Come, rest yourself.”
He seated me in the armchair, then drew his chair opposite me and perched on its edge, leaning forward. I noticed how quiet the house was. There was no sign of Slade’s fellow agents. The ease I’d learned to feel in his presence vanished. The room seemed too small, the dim lamplight too intimate, and Mr. Slade too close. I could see the dark stubble on his face, the reflections of the lamp in his eyes. But I should not allow myself to be distracted by personal thoughts. Quickly I told Mr. Slade about Kuan and what he’d said to me.
“So Mr. Kuan is a Chinaman,” Mr. Slade said, amazed and enlightened. “That explains his strange accent and his connection with Isaiah Fearon, the China trader. It’s a wonder that he’s made such inroads into British society. But we knew he had a brilliant mind.” Mr. Slade shook his head, deploring Kuan. “It’s a pity that he has applied it to waging a personal war against us.”
“Perhaps he has a good reason.” My words, spoken without conscious thought, surprised me.
“What are you talking about?” Mr. Slade frowned in surprise even greater than mine.
“His family was murdered by opium dealers who were in collusion with British traders.” Although I knew Kuan had done wrong, something in me wanted to explain his motives. “His homeland was invaded by ours.”
I had been accustomed to think that Britain was good and noble and to respect its intentions, if not always its politicians. I didn’t want to believe that my country would deliberately harm another for no just cause. I had always preferred to believe that people in the Far East were savage, ignorant heathens, and if they only knew better, they would understand that we wanted what was best for everyone. We, after all, were more advanced in science and philosophy; we were Christians, with God to justify our actions.
But now I realized that I had adopted Kuan’s way of thinking. He had personified the Chinese for me, had made them seem human and their suffering real. He was akin to David fighting Goliath, and I could better identify with the small and weak than with the mighty. Though the Chinese were heathens, they were as much God’s creatures as we, and as deserving of compassion. I was dismayed at how much influence Kuan had gained over my mind; yet I felt an irresistible urge to speak for him.
“Mr. Kuan is avenging the death of his wife and children and the humiliation of his country,” I said.
Mr. Slade drew back from me, as much offended as he was puzzled by my vehemence. “Kuan has no right to punish innocent people in Britain for what happened to him in China,” he said. “Isabel White, Joseph Lock, and Isaiah Fearon weren’t responsible for the murder of his family or the attack on Canton. How can you defend that madman?”
All that was rational and moral in me rebelled against my own defense of Kuan; but alas, he had undermined that part of me. I couldn’t admit to Mr. Slade how far Kuan had swayed me towards his side; nor could I stifle my compulsion to make Mr. Slade understand Kuan’s point of view. “The actions of the British government have driven him mad. He’s not to blame,” I said, although I knew this was faulty reasoning. “In his mind, we, as a nation, have done far more wrong than he has. Were China to harm us, or England, in such a way, we should feel and react in kind. Can’t you see that?”
“I can see that Kuan is a criminal,” Mr. Slade said, adamant. “Whatever his justifications are, they don’t excuse murder. And the situation in the East is more complex than he has represented to you. It’s not for him to settle international disputes.”
I flared with anger at Mr. Slade for arguing with me, and at Kuan for suborning me; given that Kuan wasn’t there, my anger focused on Mr. Slade. At that moment I forgot I loved him; indeed, I almost hated him. He seemed a self-righteous brute. Some of my suspicion and disapproval of Kuan had transferred to Mr. Slade; some of my loyalty to Mr. Slade has transferred to Kuan.
“Are you so blindly certain of our goodness and his evil?” I demanded.
Mr. Slade’s response was a look of grave concern for me that extinguished my irrational temper. Now I felt sick that I had allowed Kuan to come between us. I sank in my chair while contradictory impulses battled inside me and Mr. Slade regarded me with caution. The emotion that prevailed was a desire to regain our comradeship.
“Please forgive me,” I said. “I didn’t mean to speak as I did. So many upsetting things have happened to me that I hardly know what I’m saying.”
“Yes, of course,” Slade said, although he seemed not quite convinced by my disclaimer. “Have you learned what Kuan is planning?”
“Not yet,” I said.
There ensued an awkward pause, during which Slade scrutinized me more closely than I liked. I could tell that he thought I was withholding information, and he was correct: Not one word about Kuan’s strange influence on me had I breathed. I sensed that Mr. Slade was wondering whether I would share with him Kuan’s plans if I knew them. Suddenly I wanted to flee him as much as I longed to stay with him.
“I must return to the house before Kuan misses me,” I said, rising.
Mr. Slade stood between me and the door. “I have a better idea. You stay here. I’ll fetch my comrades, and we’ll storm that house and capture Kuan.”
“No,” I said. “He sneaked into the house by a secret passage; when he hears you coming, he could slip right through your fingers. I have to go back. Don’t worry; I’ll be safe.”
“It’s not just your safety that concerns me.” Mr. Slade clearly sensed my divided loyalties.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I have to go. Otherwise we may never learn what Kuan intends.”
As much as I feared Kuan, I needed to show Mr. Slade that we were on the same side and that I would do my part. I edged around him towards the door, but he caught my hand and drew me to him. My heart began to pound with the fear that he would force me to tell him how I’d fallen under Kuan’s sway, and an equal fear of what can happen when a man and woman find themselves alone together. Slade touched my cheek; it burned in response. Our faces were so close that I could feel our breath mingle. As he bent his head towards me, how I yearned for the touch of his lips on mine!
A sudden disturbing thought quenched my desire. Was Mr. Slade trying to seduce me becau
se he truly wanted me, or did he have another, less flattering purpose? Perhaps he knew that his command over me had weakened and he sought to ensure my obedience. Kuan had poisoned my relationship with Mr. Slade. Once I would have eagerly welcomed his kiss; now I turned my face away. Mr. Slade hesitated, then dropped my hand. I couldn’t look at him, so I know not whether his face showed hurt because I’d rejected him or vexation that his ploy had failed.
“Goodbye, then, Miss Brontë,” he said, cool and formal. “Take care.”
I fled the house in fear that I’d ruined the hopes I still cherished even while I distrusted Slade’s motives. Outside, the wind had risen; the fog receded towards the sea. Midnight must have come and gone; the houses were dark. The moon and stars glowed through shreds of mist in the black sky as I rushed through the town and along the road. I had an even stronger sense of being followed than before. I imagined I heard footsteps echoing mine, and someone else’s breaths. At last I reached the cove, where the sea’s thunder drowned all other sounds. I crept down the path towards the house. Lights shone in the windows, and I despaired: The searchers had returned home during my absence. Even if Kuan, Hitchman, and Nick didn’t know I wasn’t in my room, I dared not attempt to sneak past them. How I wished I hadn’t come back! Had I been thinking clearly, I would have encouraged Mr. Slade to raid the house. As I hesitated in the darkness some twenty paces from the house, a hand seized my wrist and pulled me into a stand of pines on a ledge overhanging the sea. I cried out in alarm.
“Miss Brontë, you be quiet, or I throw you in water,” T’ing-nan said.
His menacing voice, and my knowledge of his character, told me that his threat was in earnest. I said, “Where have you been?” His face was dirty and streaked with tears, his clothes disheveled. “Everyone’s been looking for you.”
“I try run away,” T’ing-nan said. Shivers and whimpers disrupted his breathing. “But no place to go.” He clutched at me. “You help me go back to China!”