Anthony Grey

by Peking- A Novel of China's Revolution- 1921-1978 (epub)

  “But how, Liang?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Liang spoke so quietly that Jakob was scarcely able to hear his reply and he could only watch in horror as the cook boy busied himself covering the zip bag with clods of wet earth.

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Liang?” asked Jakob in a broken voice.

  “I’m sorry, Ke Mu-shih. I informed the judge. He ordered me only to prepare the burial.”

  Liang continued filling in the hole and flattened a little mound of earth above it with the back of the spade. When he had finished, he retreated along with the guards, leaving Jakob standing alone. For a long time the missionary remained motionless at the graveside, his hands bound behind his back, his head bowed in abject sorrow. Then Liang, the guards, and the judge’s party saw his lips begin to move in prayer. When he had finished praying he swung around and stumbled toward the judge, his eyes wide with grief.

  “Kill me now!” he yelled, his voice a croak of desperation. “Kill me and be done with it. And may God have mercy on you!”

  The judge’s face remained impassive. “When you’ve had sufficient time by the grave,” said the official quietly, “your guards will escort you back to the farm.”

  Jakob’s face sagged uncomprehendingly and he stared at the official in bafflement. “Why do you go on torturing me?” he asked in a hoarse whisper: “Why have you changed your mind?”

  For a moment Judge Yang remained silent and Jakob thought he detected a faint trace of embarrassment in his expression. “Your execution has been postponed.” The magistrate turned away and signaled impatiently to the guards. “That is all. Take the foreign prisoner away!”

  PART FOUR

  The Marchers Triumph

  SUMMER 1935

  Bottled up successfully south of the Yangtze by its Kuomintang enemies, the fleeing Red Army continued to trace corkscrew- shaped tracks across the map of southwest China during the early months of 1935. To escape the clutches of the 750,000 Nationalist and provincial soldiers ringing them at a distance, the 30,000 Communists split repeatedly under Mao Tse-tung’s guileful orders and marched north, south, east, and west in a succession of bewildering maneuvers that the Red Army men themselves scarcely understood. Chiang Kai-shek, interpreting these erratic movements as proof that his outnumbered enemy was close to defeat, flew from Chungking to Kweiyang, the capital of Kweichow province, to assume direct command. To Chiang’s alarm, however, Mao immediately sent attack columns hurrying toward the city, and in response the Nationalist leader called in forces from neighboring Yunnan to defend Kweiyang. This delighted the Communists, since Mao had predicted that the Red Army would succeed in breaking out northward across the Yangtze if enemy divisions could be lured out of Yunnan. As soon as the Yunnan troops were moved to Kweichow, the Central Red Army swung west and raced into unguarded Yunnan province in three flying columns. They crossed the upper Yangtze where it is known as the River of Golden Sand after a crack vanguard unit disguised as Nationalist troops made a phenomenal forced march of eighty miles in thirty-six hours to secure by subterfuge one of the few ferry crossings. This enabled the whole of the Central Red Army to be ferried across into Szechuan in a handful of small boats during the first nine days of May. Although the river crashes rapidly through deep rock-walled ravines in this wild region, not a single man was lost, and when the Nationalist forces arrived two days later, they could only stare hopelessly across the turbulent river: all the boats had been destroyed and the next crossing point lay two hundred Ii distant.

  Therefore, seven months after setting out from their Central Soviet base in Kiangsi, the Communists succeeded spectacularly in separating themselves at last from a pursuing force hundreds of thousands strong — at least for a time. They were able to rest for a few days, but when they pushed on northward again, they encountered a new danger in the form of a fierce tribe of non- Chinese aborigines known as the Lobs, who inhabited the dense forests and mountains close to Tibet. In Kweichow and Yunnan the Communists had already encountered the Miao and Shan minority tribes, who were less warlike; some had even joined the Red Army’s ranks. The Lobs of Szechuan were different: they harbored a fierce hatred for all Han Chinese, and, armed with spears, knives, axes, and shotguns, they massed ominously above the mountain trails along which the Red Army was marching. Few Chinese armies had ever passed through the territory of the Lobs without suffering severe losses, and this knowledge encouraged the Communists to negotiate rather than fight. The Red Army leaders explained that, like the Lobs, they too were enemies of the Kuomintang government and offered the surprised tribesmen rifles and ammunition, which they gratefully accepted. To cement friendly relations further, one Red Army general swore blood brotherhood with a high chieftain by drinking the blood of a rooster in a tribal ceremony. In the thick, primal forests, while marching among the Lobs, the Red Army also gained another advantage — for a long spell they became invisible to reconnaissance aircraft of the Kuomintang.

  But frustrating though this was to Chiang Kai-shek, he knew that at the end of the Red Army’s trek through tribal territory one last chance would present itself to trap the Communists against another great natural barrier, the Tatu. A thunderous, non- navigable tributary of the Yangtze that rushed foaming southeastward beneath precipitous cliffs, the Tatu barred the Central Red Army’s way to union with the 80,000-strong Fourth Front Army of Chang Kuo-tao in northern Szechuan and another Communist force of 10,000 men occupying a small soviet farther north in Shensi. If they could not cross the Tatu, the Central Red Army and its leaders faced the prospect of wasting away in the wilderness on the fringes of the high Tibetan plateau, where food and opportunities to expand their cause were equally scarce. Knowing that Chiang Kai-shek would be preparing another blockade on the river, the Communists employed Lob trackers to lead them swiftly over secret trails to the banks of the Tatu, and they arrived at its best crossing point, in the town of Anshunchang, days before it seemed humanly possible. A sleepy regiment of provincial troops awaiting reinforcements was attacked and put to flight and one Communist division was ferried across to the northern bank. But the river, swollen by floods and melting snow, was in its most savage mood: each crossing was slow and hazardous, and a dangerous bottleneck built up. All the Red Army’s flanking columns, its transport units, and even the rear guard crowded into Anshunchang, while Kuomintang aircraft, having spotted this growing concentration of troops, began to bomb the area. With Chiang’s land forces converging rapidly from the north and the southeast, the specter of total disaster rose once more before the eyes of the Red Army, and in the little town perched above the turbulent river, a crisis meeting of its top leaders was hurriedly summoned.

  1

  Because of the speed of the current, the last boat we sent over had to start two hundred yards upstream,” said Lu Chiao, raising his voice to make it heard above the roar of the river. “It took four hours to get across and two of the eighty fighters were swept overboard. In three days we have ferried over only the First Division . .

  Chiao glanced around at the circle of Red Army leaders seated at trestle tables before him in a bare, whitewashed room: their faces were grim and intent and some were jotting notes on slips of paper resting before them on the rough planks.

  “If we continue at this rate,” continued Chiao, turning toward a map he had pinned on one of the walls, “it will take us several weeks to complete the crossing with all our animals and supplies . .

  “Is it impossible to throw a bridge across, Commander Lu, as you did so heroically at the Hsiang River?”

  The question was asked in a soft Hunanese accent and Chiao knew without looking around that it was the chairman of the Revolutionary Military Commission himself who had spoken from the center of the main table. Picking up a wooden pointer in his left hand, Chiao drew it along the twisting course of the Tatu as it snaked through Anshunchang.

  “The flow of the river along all this stretch, Commissar Mao, is four or five yards per second. It is
too fast even to attempt to drive a stake into the riverbed. In my opinion, putting a bridge across is out of the question.”

  Chiao paused and looked around quickly over his shoulder at the rest of his listeners, checking for signs of impatience on their faces. At a glance he saw that Military Commissioner Chou En-lai’s dark brows were knitted in concentration at Mao’s right shoulder and the piercing gaze of Commander in Chief Chu Teh on his left was fixed attentively on him; the other Red Army leaders, aware of his vital role in the Hsiang crossing, were also sitting motionless in their seats, content, it seemed, to hear him out in respectful silence. The meeting had been called in one of the small stone-walled houses that stood in two rows on either side of the neat, tree-lined main street of Anshunchang, and behind Chiao, through the open door, the boiling surface of the Tatu was visible at the foot of the steep bluff on which the town stood. Angry plumes of spray were leaping high in the air as racing waves crashed over rocky reefs and whirlpools sucked at the single visible ferryboat wallowing with a full load of troops and horses in midstream.

  “There are only two boats and the search for others has proved fruitless. Each boat requires eight men to control it — so there wouldn’t be enough experienced local boatmen to man other ferryboats, even if we could find any. Two enemy regiments approaching from the southeast are reported to be only sixty Ii downstream and marching quickly. Another division, the Szechuan warlord forces coming from the north, has only eighty Ii to cover. . .

  Chiao paused and drew from a top pocket of his tunic a crumpled sheet of yellowish paper. It bore several lines of large, crudely formed Chinese characters that had obviously been printed with haste. He held the paper in front of him and scanned his audience again, preparing to read.

  “The enemy planes that started bombing us yesterday are now dropping leaflets like these as well. They say: ‘The end is near for the Red Army — surrender right away! Leave your traitorous leaders to their fate and your lives will be spared! Later there will be no mercy. You are all doomed to the same fate as Prince Shih Ta-kai!’

  With some difficulty Chiao tucked the propaganda leaflet back into a tunic pocket, using only his left hand: his awkwardness emphasized the stiff, unnatural way in which he still held his wounded right arm and shoulder, although he had dispensed with a sling. For a few seconds the angry roar of the river filled the room without challenge, seeming to daunt the men gathered there with its fierce, elemental energy — then the same Hunanese voice broke the spell.

  “We shall not repeat the mistakes of Shih Ta-kai.”

  Although the assertion was not made loudly, the words were uttered with a whip-crack sharpness that carried the conviction of a shout. As he spoke, the chairman of the Revolutionary Military Commission raised his head to gaze searchingly around at the generals and political commissars crowded into the tiny room.

  “The Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army of China has not marched fifteen thousand li to make the same errors as yesterday’s tragic heroes. We’ve already changed history. We’ll never let the past return —“

  “Who was Prince Shih Ta-kai, if I may ask?”

  The bespectacled interpreter seated beside Otto Braun voiced the question in Chinese with evident reluctance, following a rumble of German from the Comintern adviser. At once a new tension became evident in the room and Chiao saw barely concealed expressions of irritation appear simultaneously on the faces of several Chinese leaders, including Commissar Mao’s.

  “Prince Shih Ta-kai was an unfortunate general of the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom. He led an army of a hundred thousand peasants to the banks of the Tatu in 1863. They were in revolt against the feudal rule of the Manchu emperors.” The patient voice of Chou En-lai, intervening smoothly, calmed the atmosphere, and the German began nodding quickly as he bent his head toward his interpreter to concentrate on the translation. “Prince Shih’s forces were trapped against the Tatu by the imperial armies and massacred. The river ran red with their blood. In the ancient past other armies have perished here. Read San Kuo Yen I — ‘The Romance of the Three Kingdoms’ — and you will understand. Local people say the tormented spirits of dead Taiping soldiers and Three Kingdoms’ warriors still scream in agony along the river on dark nights . .

  “Prince Shih surrendered and was sliced to death in Chengtu — you’ve heard of ‘death by a thousand cuts,’ comrade?” Chu Teh’s broad Szechuanese voice was brusque and impatient and he stared belligerently at the European as he spoke. “If we’re captured here the Kuomintang will do the same to us. Now let’s get on!”

  Mao Tse-tung pushed back his chair noisily and strode toward the map, motioning Chiao aside. Tall and gaunt in a crumpled, badgeless uniform of field gray, he bent forward at the waist to peer intently at the twisting strand of ink that represented the Tatu. His hair was unkempt, his eyes hollow and overlarge in his pale face, but even when he stood motionless, Chiao noticed, his body seemed vibrant with energy. Suddenly Mao jabbed a finger at the map and turned to look at the other men in the room.

  “Luting! That’s where we must cross. There is a bridge at Luting.

  What’s your opinion, Commander Lu?”

  Chiao shook his head dubiously. “Luting is three hundred and twenty li from here, Commissar Mao — that’s three days’ march over normal terrain. Local people say two regiments are already guarding the bridge. Several brigades of reinforcements must be on their way there too.”

  “What is the trail like on this side of the river?”

  “Almost impossible, Commissar Mao. The normal route north is along the eastern bank on the far side. This side, the trail sometimes runs through waist-deep mud at the level of the river; at others it climbs thousands of feet to the tops of the ravines Chiao hesitated. “Also, the bridge at Luting is made only of chains and planks. It stretches across a gorge a hundred yards wide — and the people of Anshunchang say the Kuomintang have machinegun emplacements in blockhouses at either end

  “Thank you, Commander Lu.” Mao turned his back to the map and faced the room. “We have no choice, comrades. Prince Shih delayed three days at Anshunchang to celebrate his wife’s delivery of a son. The delay cost him everything. We must not delay. We must march on Luting at once.”

  Mao spoke with a quiet forcefulness, searching the faces of the men before him one by one as though challenging each in turn to disagree: when none dissented he swung around quickly to Chiao again.

  “Commander Lu, are you recovered sufficiently from your wounds to undertake a hard forced march?”

  “My shoulder is still stiff, Commissar Mao, but I can march well enough.”

  “The assault group for the bridge must all be volunteers. Choose the men from the Fourth Regiment of the First Army Group. If you are well enough, why not march with them and take personal command yourself?”

  The chairman of the Military Commission looked hard at him, his eyes dark and unwavering.

  “It would be a great honor, Commissar Mao.”

  “Good. Then waste no time. We must cress within three days!”

  Without speaking further Mao strode out of the doorway and, turning his back firmly on the savage river, climbed away up the bluff toward his quarters. The set of his broad shoulders anti his quick. sure stride confirmed wordlessly that his mind had been emphatically and irrevocably made up. Watching him go, Chiao realized that under the almost hypnotic power of his gaze, he had accepted the dangerous mission to seize the bridge at Luting without giving the consequences any thought at all.

  2

  Thunder crashed through the blackness overhead, drowning momentarily the roar of the Tatu, and a new deluge of rain drenched the slippery boulders to which Liang clung as he edged along the narrow riverside trail. The hundred-foot drop to the river on his right was sheer, with only the outline of an occasional stunted tree jutting from the rock face against the paleness of the foaming water. The storm had turned the path to slime and his feet, shod now with steel-tipped straw sandals, slithered alarmingly a
t almost every step. Above Liang on his left, a sheer cliff rose perpendicularly, and torrents of rainwater rushing down its gullies buffeted him roughly every few yards as they passed.

  “The Fourth Regiment has a glorious battle record!” yelled a voice suddenly in the darkness ahead of him. “Our new mission is difficult — but we’re determined to maintain our good name!”

  “We’ll outdo the First Regiment, which captured Anshunchang,” roared another voice in response. “We’ll capture the Luting bridge in three days!”

  Liang, encouraged by the reassuring vigor and confidence of the shouts, peered ahead into the rain, searching for a hint of the white towel which each soldier in the Fourth Regiment had been ordered to drape across the back of his pack to make himself more visible. Seeing a patch of paleness begin bobbing rhythmically in the inky blackness, the former cook boy let go of the slippery boulder he was clutching and broke into a run again along the twisting trail.

  As he ran, he pulled the long peak of his eight-sided cap lower over his eyes to keep out the stinging rain and eased the webbing straps of his backpack and rifle to more comfortable positions on his chest. In the pack he carried a ration bag of five pounds of cold boiled rice issued at Anshunchang, a metal drinking cup, chopsticks, a quilt and two spare pairs of straw sandals.. If the three hundred li separating Anshunchang and Luting were to be covered in three days, there would be no time for cooking, the Fourth Regiment’s political commissars had announced in their departure briefings at dawn. In the eighteen hours that had passed since, only two halts had been called, to bolt down a few handfuls of the rice and drink a cup or two of rainwater.

  “If you hear the Taiping water devils wailing from the river, don’t listen,” yelled another voice which Liang recognized as belonging to the Third Company’s political instructor. “Forget the tragic fate of Shih Ta-kai. We will change history! We are the Chinese Workers’ and Peasants’ Red Army!”