The Manchu armies were organized into great companies, known as banners, each led by a prince or trusted chief. As the Ming Empire crumbled and fell under their yoke, its great cities were garrisoned by bannermen, and remained so as the centuries passed.
As for the proud Han Chinese, they were now a subject people. Their men were forced to adopt the Manchu hairstyle, shaving the front of their heads and plaiting the rest of their hair into a single long braid—a pigtail or “queue”—that hung down their backs.
Yet if the Chinese had succumbed, their culture had not. To be sure, the Manchu were proud of their heroic warrior past, but as masters now of the huge cities, palaces, and temples of China, they soon gave themselves a Chinese name—the Qing, or Ch’ing—and ruled more or less as conventional Chinese emperors. The Qing emperors performed the eternal sacrifices to the gods. Some became quite erudite in Chinese literature.
Jiang owed them obedience. Yet even now, like many Han Chinese, he still knew that it was he and his people who were the true inheritors of the millennia of Chinese culture, and that he should have been superior to the overlords he served.
* * *
—
The huge outer wall before him ran four miles across, from east to west, with a mighty gatehouse in the center. Inside the wall, on the right, raised above the surrounding world on a great mound, he could see the great drumlike pagoda at the Temple of Heaven, before which the emperor performed the ancient ceremonies to ask the gods for good harvests, its three tiers of blue-tiled roofs turning to indigo under the reddening embers of the clouds.
After passing through the gateway, he and Wong continued due north on a raised causeway for another couple of miles towards the even more impressive four-mile-square enclosure of the Inner City, protected by its perimeter wall with mighty guard towers at each corner.
Dusk was falling as they entered, past bannermen guards in their Manchu hats, jerkins, and boots. The market stalls on each side of the wide road were closing, their signs being taken down. Refuse collectors, a few in wide-brimmed hats, most in skullcaps, were stooping over their shovels and spooning manure into big earthenware pots. A faint smell of dung, seasoned with soy and ginseng, filled the air.
This Inner City was by no means the center of Beijing. For within it, behind the colossal Tiananmen Gate, lay another walled citadel, the Imperial City; and within that, across a moat, hidden from almost all eyes by its purple walls, the golden-roofed Forbidden City, the innermost sanctum, the vast palace and grounds of the celestial emperor himself.
Their path this evening took them to the northeastern quarter of the Inner City, to a quiet street where, in a pleasant house beside a small temple, the scholar Mr. Wen resided. Jiang was tired and looking forward to a rest.
But no sooner had they entered the little courtyard than the old scholar hurried out.
“At last,” he cried. “You must go to the lord Lin. He leaves tomorrow. But he will see you tonight if you go at once. At once.” He thrust a written pass to the Imperial City into Jiang’s hand. “Wong will lead you,” he directed. “He knows the way.”
They entered on foot, not by the great Tiananmen Gate, but by a lesser entrance in the Imperial City’s eastern wall; and they soon came to a handsome government guesthouse with wide, sweeping eaves, where the lord Lin was lodging. And a few minutes later Shi-Rong found himself in a small hall where the lord Lin was seated on a big carved rosewood chair.
* * *
—
At first glance, there was nothing so remarkable about him. He might have been any thickset, middle-aged mandarin. His small, pointed beard was greying, his eyes set wide apart. Given his stern reputation, Jiang had expected the High Commissioner’s lips to be thin, but in fact they were rather full.
Yet there was something very dignified about him, a stillness. He might have been the abbot of a monastery.
Jiang bowed.
“I had already chosen a young man to join my staff as secretary.” Lord Lin addressed him quietly, without any introduction. “But then he fell ill. I waited. He grew worse. Meanwhile, I had received a letter about you from Mr. Wen, a scholar whom I trust. I took it as a sign. He told me about you. Some good things, some less good.”
“This humble servant is deeply honored that his teacher Mr. Wen should think of him, High Commissioner, and knew nothing of his letter,” Jiang confessed. “Mr. Wen’s opinion in all matters is just.”
A slight nod signified that this answer satisfied.
“He has also told me that you were traveling to visit your dying father.”
“Confucius tells us, ‘Honor thy father,’ High Commissioner.”
In all the Analects of Confucius, there was no more central theme.
“And thy father’s fathers,” Lin added quietly. “Nor would I hinder you in your duty. But I have called you here on a great matter, and my commission is from the emperor himself.” He paused. “First I must know you better.” He gave Jiang a stern look. “Your name, Shi-Rong, means ‘scholarly honor.’ Your father had high hopes of you. But you failed your exams.”
“This humble servant did.” Jiang hung his head.
“Why? Did you work hard enough?”
“I thought I had. I am ashamed.”
“Your father passed the metropolitan exams at his first attempt. Did you desire to do better than him?”
“No, Excellency. That would be disrespectful. But I felt I had let him down. I wished only to please him.”
“You are his only son?” He looked at Jiang sharply, and when the young man nodded, he remarked: “That is not an easy burden. Did you find the exams frightening?”
“Yes, High Commissioner.”
That was an understatement. The journey to the capital. The line of little cubicles into which each candidate was locked for the entire three-day duration of the exam. It was said that if you died during the process, they wrapped your body and threw it over the city wall.
“Some candidates smuggle papers in with them. They cheat. Did you?”
Jiang started. An instant flash of anger and pride appeared upon his face before he could control it. He immediately bowed his head respectfully before looking up again. “Your servant did not, High Commissioner.”
“Your father had a good career, though a modest one. He did not retire a wealthy man.” Lin paused again, looking at Jiang, who was not sure what to make of it. But remembering Lin’s reputation for rigid correctness in all his dealings, he answered truthfully.
“I believe, Excellency, that my father never took a bribe in all his life.”
“If he had,” the older man replied quietly, “you would not be here.” He gave Jiang another thoughtful look. “We are measured not only by our triumphs, young man, but by our persistence. If we fail, we must try harder. I also failed the metropolitan exams the first time. Did you know that?”
“No, Commissioner.”
“I took them a second time. I failed again. The third time, I passed.” He let that sink in, then continued sternly. “If you become my secretary, you will have to be strong. You will have to work hard. If you fail, you will learn from your mistakes and you will do better. You will never give up. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Commissioner.”
“Mr. Wen tells me that he thinks you will pass next time. But first you should work for me. Do you agree?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“Good.” Lin nodded. “Tell me what you know about opium.”
“People who can afford it like to smoke,” Jiang offered. “But if they become addicted, they waste all their money. It makes them sick. The emperor has made opium illegal.” He paused, wondering if he dared to say the truth. “But everyone seems to get it.”
“Correct. In the last generation, the traffic has grown ten times. The numbers of people addicted until they are usele
ss, reduced to poverty, ruined, killed…It’s terrible. The people cannot pay their taxes. Silver is flowing out of the empire to pay for opium instead.”
“Some opium is grown in China, I believe.”
“Also true. But nearly all of it now is coming from across the seas. Our Chinese smugglers buy it from the barbarian pirates. So what are we to do?”
Did he expect an answer to the question?
“Your servant has heard, Excellency, that it is possible to turn people away from this addiction.”
“We try. But it is very uncertain. The emperor has given me authority to take all steps needed. I shall execute the smugglers. What other problems occur to you?” He watched the young man, saw his awkwardness. “You are working for me now. You are to tell me the truth at all times.”
Shi-Rong took a deep breath. “I have heard, Excellency—though I hope it may not be true—that local officials on the coast are paid by the smugglers not to see their activities.”
“We shall catch them and punish them. If necessary, with death.”
“Ah.” It began to dawn upon Jiang that this was not going to be an easy assignment. To refuse bribes oneself was one thing; to earn the enmity of half the officials on the coastland was another. Not good for his career.
“You will have no friends, young man, but the emperor and me.”
Shi-Rong bowed his head. He wondered if he could feign a sudden sickness—as, it now occurred to him, the other young man in line for the post might have done. No, he didn’t think so.
“Your servant is greatly honored.” And then, despite the cold horror that was growing in his mind, he felt a curiosity to ask one further question. “How will you deal with the pirates, Excellency? The barbarians from over the seas.”
“I have not yet decided. We shall see when we get to the coast.”
Shi-Rong bowed his head again. “I have one request, Commissioner. May I see my father?”
“Go to him at once. Either to bury him or to bid him farewell. It will please him that you have received such a position. But you must not stay with him. Despite your duty to remain and mourn him, you must continue at once to the coast. You will consider that a command from the emperor himself.”
Shi-Rong hardly knew what to think as he and Wong made their way back to the house of Mr. Wen. All he knew was that he needed to sleep, and that he would set out again at dawn.
The following morning, he was surprised to find that Wong was all saddled up and ready to ride with him.
“He will ride with you as far as Zhengzhou,” Mr. Wen informed him. “You must practice speaking Cantonese all the way.”
His old teacher thought of everything.
* * *
◦
By evening, Mei-Ling was racked with fear. Not that anything had been said. Not yet, at least. She’d performed all the tasks her mother-in-law demanded. During the afternoon the older woman had gone to a neighbor’s, and Mei-Ling had breathed a little easier. The men had been out in the bamboo forest on the hill. Willow had been resting, which, considering her condition and her family’s wealth, she was allowed to do. So Mei-Ling had been left alone with her thoughts.
Had Sister Willow kept her secret? Or did her mother-in-law know about Nio’s visit that morning? Mother usually knew everything. Perhaps some punishment was being prepared for her.
And then there was tomorrow morning to worry about. Mei-Ling cursed her own stupidity. Why had she told Nio she would meet him?
Because she loved him, of course. Because he was her Little Brother. But what had possessed her? She hadn’t even talked to her husband about it—her husband, whom she loved even more than Little Brother. Even her husband couldn’t protect her from Mother, though. No young Chinese wife disobeyed her mother-in-law.
She’d better not go. She knew it. Nio would understand. But she had given her word. She might be poor, but Mei-Ling prided herself that she never broke her word. Perhaps because she and her family were held of no account in the village, this pride in her word had always been a point of honor with her, ever since she’d been a little girl.
How would she do it, anyway? Even if she slipped out undetected, what were the chances of getting back without her absence being noted? Slim at best. And what then? There was no way to escape a terrible punishment.
Perhaps one. Just perhaps. But she wasn’t sure. That was the trouble.
* * *
—
The evening began well enough. Her husband’s family owned the best of the peasant farmhouses in the village. Behind the main courtyard was a big central room where, as usual, they had all gathered.
Opposite her on a wide bench, Willow sat with her husband, Elder Son. Despite his rawboned body and his hands, still dirty from his work, too gnarled to match the elegance of Willow, the two of them looked quite comfortable under his mother’s gaze. Elder Son drank a little huangjiu rice wine and addressed a remark to his wife from time to time. When Willow’s eyes met Mei-Ling’s, there was no sign of guilt upon her face, nor of complicity. Lucky Willow. She’d been brought up never to show any expression at all.
Mei-Ling sat beside Second Son on a bench. Left to themselves, they were usually talkative; but they knew better than to have a conversation now. If they did, his mother would shut them up with a peremptory “You talk too much to your wife, Second Son.” But from where she was sitting, Mother could not quite see that Mei-Ling was discreetly touching his hand.
People thought Second Son was the fool of the family. Hardworking, he was shorter than his older brother and always seemed contented, to the point that he’d soon received the nickname Happy—a name that suggested he might be a bit simple-minded. But Mei-Ling knew better. Certainly he wasn’t ambitious or worldly-wise, or he’d never have married her. But he was just as intelligent as the rest of them. And he was kind. They’d only been married six months, and she was in love with him already.
There hadn’t been a chance to tell him about Nio since he came in. She was sure he’d beg her not to go, just to keep peace in the family. So what could she do? Sneak out at dawn without telling him?
At the back of the big room, old Mr. Lung was playing mah-jong with three of his neighbors.
Mr. Lung was always very calm. With his small grey beard, his skullcap, and his long, thin pigtail hanging down his back, he looked like a kindly sage. Now that he had two grown sons, he was content to step back from life and leave most of the hard work to them—though he still supervised his fields and collected all his rents. When he went around the village, he would give sweets to the children, but if their parents owed him money, he’d be sure he got it from them. Mr. Lung didn’t talk much, but when he did, it was usually to let people know that he was richer and wiser than his neighbors.
“A merchant once told me,” he remarked, “that he had seen a mah-jong set made of little blocks of ivory.” His set was made of bamboo. Poor people used mah-jong playing cards.
“Oh, Mr. Lung,” one of the neighbors politely asked, “will you buy an ivory set? That would be very elegant.”
“Perhaps. But so far I have never seen such a thing myself.”
They continued to play. His wife watched silently from her chair nearby. Her hair was pulled back tightly over her head, accentuating her high cheekbones. Her hard eyes were turned towards the tiles. Her expression seemed to indicate that if she had been playing, she would have done better.
After a time she turned towards Mei-Ling. “I saw your mother in the street today.” She stared balefully. “She had a boy with her. A Hakka boy.” She paused. “Your mother is a Hakka,” she added unpleasantly.
“Her mother was Hakka,” Mei-Ling said. “She is only half Hakka.”
“You are the first Hakka in our family,” her mother-in-law continued coldly.
Mei-Ling looked down. The message was clear. Her mother-in-law was
telling her she knew about Nio’s visit—and waiting for her to confess. Should she do so? Mei-Ling knew she’d better. But a tiny flame of rebellion stirred deep within her. She said nothing. Her mother-in-law continued to stare.
“There are many tribes in southern China,” Mr. Lung announced, looking up from his game. “The Han moved in and dominated them. But the Hakka people are different. The Hakka people are a branch of the Han. They also came here from the north. They have their own customs, but they are like cousins to the Han.”
Mother said nothing. She might rule everyone else, but she could not argue with the head of the house. At least not in public.
“I have always heard so, Mr. Lung,” one of the neighbors chimed in.
“The Hakka people are brave,” said Mr. Lung. “They live in big round houses. People say they mixed with tribes from the steppe beyond the Great Wall, people like the Manchu. This is why even the rich Hakka do not bind their women’s feet.”
“People say they are very independent,” said the neighbor.
“They are trouble!” Mother suddenly shouted at Mei-Ling. “This Nio you call your Little Brother is a troublemaker. A criminal.” She paused only to draw breath. “From the family of your mother’s mother. He’s not even your relation.” For indeed, in the eyes of the Han Chinese, such a relationship on the female side hardly counted as family at all.
“I don’t think Nio has broken the law, Mother,” Mei-Ling said softly. She had to defend him.
The older woman didn’t even bother to reply. She turned to her younger son.
“You see what this leads to? Marriage is not a game. That’s why parents choose the bride. Different village, different clan; rich girl for rich boy, poor girl for poor boy. Otherwise, only trouble. You know the saying: The doors of the house should match. But no. You are obstinate. The matchmaker finds you a good bride. The families agree. Then you refuse to obey your own father. You disgrace us. And next, suddenly you tell us you want to marry this girl.” She glared at Mei-Ling. “This pretty girl.”
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