China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Perhaps it was because the rebels had moved so fast, Cecil thought, that the countryside he’d passed through didn’t look devastated. Close to the city, of course, there were untidy earth and stone ramparts and ground cleared to allow easy cannon fire. But that was all. On his right, a pale porcelain pagoda soared into the sky. It looked as if the Taiping had gutted the inside of the pagoda, but its lovely outer shell was still untouched.

  The shaggy-haired Taiping troops were prodding him with spears. He rode slowly forward. They supposed he was obeying them, and in a way he was. But in truth, he was obeying the will of the Lord. At least he hoped so.

  Everyone had told him not to make this journey. “Even if you reach the place,” they said, “you may not get out alive.” All, that is, except one. “Trust in the Lord,” she had told him. “I will wait for you.”

  * * *

  —

  Minnie Ross had been educated by her father, who was a minister in Dundee. She’d come to Hong Kong as a governess. She was small, under five feet tall. She hadn’t a penny to her name. But she was very neat in her person, and the light of the Lord was in her eye. And she was going to marry Cecil Whiteparish.

  They had known each other for a year before their courtship began. It was initiated by Minnie. And it was brief.

  Whiteparish had been politely walking her home from a meeting at the London Missionary Society’s chapel in Hong Kong’s Lower Bazaar. The chapel had been built almost as soon as victory in the Opium War put Hong Kong in British hands. The modest colonial building with its plain portico had looked rather incongruous at first, in the untidy Chinese fishing village that looked across the water to Kowloon. But recently, a fire had burned most of the Chinese village, and now British builders were tidying the area up. It was all part of the expanding occupation, which brought not only the British and their dependents to the steep slopes of Hong Kong, but all manner of Chinese from Kowloon and Canton to service the new colony.

  In British Hong Kong, the missionaries had at last been able to make some Chinese converts. The London Mission was already running a medical center and a thriving little school by the Lower Bazaar chapel.

  “Tell me, Mr. Whiteparish,” Minnie Ross had inquired, “do you still hope to make converts on the mainland of China?”

  “I do,” Cecil replied.

  “But so far you have not.”

  “Hardly anyone has,” he answered with a sigh. “After the Opium War, when the Chinese guaranteed British entry into five ports, we thought we’d be able to preach the Word freely. But in practice, the local governors still make it almost impossible even to trade in those ports, let alone have consuls and a British community. Canton is somewhat open. The only other place is Shanghai, much farther up the coast—which is curious, really. For Shanghai was only a very minor place at the time, you know, almost an afterthought, really—though it’s growing rapidly now.”

  “But you still have faith in your mission?”

  “Let us say that I am ten years older and a little wiser.” Cecil Whiteparish smiled. “The life of a missionary to China is dispiriting, Miss Ross. Many of the missionaries I knew when I first came have given up and returned home. One of them may even have lost his faith. I suppose I’m still here because I put so much effort into learning Chinese, so there’s more chance I might be useful in China than anywhere else. But I’ve no illusions. I’m a single Christian. If during my life I could bring even two others into the faith, especially if they have families, that would be a small numerical advance.”

  “I’m sure you hope for more. Is it true that you are thinking of going into China illegally very soon?”

  He stared at her and frowned. “That is supposed to be a secret.”

  “I don’t think there are many secrets in Hong Kong, Mr. Whiteparish. They say you want to go to Nanjing.”

  “This rebel army, the Taiping or whatever we are to call them, say they are Christians. Nobody knows quite what they are, but they number in the tens of thousands, and they may soon control an entire province. If they are truly Christians or can be made so, it could be of huge importance. Somebody has to go and find out.”

  “A dangerous mission.”

  “I’m a missionary. And I know something of the Chinese by now. If I can elude the Manchu authorities along the way and reach the rebels, I doubt they will harm me.”

  “You’ll trust in the Lord.”

  “It’s what I usually do.”

  “You must go,” she said, as though she had decided the matter herself.

  He gazed at her. What a strange little person she was. Apart from her smallness, there was nothing really noticeable about her. Mousy hair, nose thin and pointed, eyes small, cobalt blue—that was unusual. There was something quiet but very determined about the way she set about her tasks. He’d noticed that and assumed that she had a great certainty in herself. Not surprising, really, in a daughter of the manse. One had to respect her; and if sometimes he felt a desire to laugh—though he never did so—it would have been a laugh of affection.

  He was quite unprepared for what came next.

  “Isn’t it time you married, Mr. Whiteparish?”

  “I don’t know about that,” he said. “Not many women would want to share the life of a missionary; and my means are very modest. I’ve never considered myself in a position to marry.”

  “I would marry you,” she said simply.

  “Good heavens.” He hardly knew what to say. “Why?”

  “Because you are a good man. What other reason could there be to marry?”

  He stared down at her and realized that she was entirely serious. This was how she thought. Without meaning to, he burst out laughing.

  “Why do you laugh, Mr. Whiteparish? Are you mocking me?” She looked hurt.

  “No, Miss Ross. I was laughing with pleasure. At your goodness. Would you marry me, then?”

  “Why, yes. I already said so.”

  He gazed at her, then across the water. Then back at her again. “Well then,” he said, “it seems you know your mind, Miss Ross. I suggest we marry when I get back from Nanjing.”

  “Not before?”

  “Better that you should become a wife,” he said gently, “than a widow.”

  * * *

  —

  Yet now that the gates of Nanjing were in front of him, and he was about to meet his destiny, what most impressed Cecil Whiteparish was not the danger he might be in. Indeed, he almost forgot to be afraid.

  For to his surprise, the main sensation he felt was one of wonder. Wonder at the beauty of the place.

  Most of China’s great cities were ancient. Nanjing was over two thousand years old. Cecil didn’t know exactly, but he was sure the walls of Nanjing must be nearly twenty miles in circuit and so thick that an entire army could have marched on top of them. The city’s position was excellent, at the center of China’s rich heartland in the Yangtze River valley. For the three hundred years before the Manchu invaded, the Ming dynasty had made it their capital.

  But each great city also had its own particular feature, one that came into the imagination the moment the place was mentioned. And this was what he gazed at now.

  The Purple Mountain.

  One couldn’t miss the Purple Mountain. It began to rise outside the walls of the city’s northeastern quadrant, where the old Ming emperor’s palace lay. It continued northward for miles, in a sweeping slope to its final ridge, which seemed to be in close communion with the heavens. And for some reason—the atmosphere, the angle of the light filtering through the blue-grey clouds that formed over it, or other natural causes, whatever they might be—the great green hill was often bathed in a magical glow, tinged with violet and reds, that caused it to seem not green, but purple.

  The Purple Mountain was a holy place. The tombs of the Ming emperors were still to be found upon
it.

  Yet as Cecil Whiteparish gazed at this Chinese hill, it seemed to him that although the landscape might be dotted with Buddhist and Taoist monasteries, Confucian temples and heathen graves, it would be hard, in such beauty, not to see the Creator’s hand. Could it be that the true God was indeed being worshipped here by these Taiping rebels? What a wonderful thing that would be.

  He was about to find out—if they didn’t kill him.

  As soon as his captors reported at the gates, he was delivered to a sergeant with a platoon of soldiers who conducted him up the main central street for about a thousand yards. Then they turned eastward, towards the old Ming palace, but hardly went more than a quarter mile when they entered a big complex of buildings, like a barracks.

  Five minutes later he had discovered that it was a prison—and that he was locked inside it.

  Not that he had been thrown into a vile cell. The room was a good size, and he was the only occupant. It contained a chair and a table. But the windows, which looked out onto a small blank courtyard, were heavily barred.

  During the next few hours several people came in. One was a jailer who gave him water and a little rice before leaving in silence and locking the door. Three others came at intervals. Though with their long hair they looked to him like wild men, they were probably officers of some kind. Each of them asked him the same questions about who he was and why he had come there, before departing. Hours passed. He sat and read his Bible. Evening came. He wondered if they would give him a lamp. They did not. Darkness fell. He felt hungry. He found three grains of rice he had missed in the bowl he’d been given. He did not see them, but felt them with his fingers and ate them.

  He had not been able to make out the face of the stout fob watch he carried, so he did not know what time it was when the door of his prison opened and two figures came in. One of them was evidently a jailer, who carried a lamp on a pole. The other was an officer, and Cecil had a feeling that this might be a man of some importance. He murmured to the jailer, who brought the lamp close to Cecil’s face so that the officer could inspect it. Another order followed, and the lamp was held high so that all three men were illumined.

  The officer had long hair, but it was neatly combed and brushed. He wore a simple tunic, spotlessly clean, with a sash. He looked to be maybe thirty, but the lines on his face suggested that he had the experience of a man ten years older. He had a scar on his cheek. “You know me,” he said in Cantonese.

  It was Nio.

  “When they described this strange spy to me, I thought it might be you. So I came to see.”

  “Not a spy, Nio. A British missionary, just as I was before. I came because I heard that the Taiping were Christian. I wanted to know. Is it true?”

  “We follow the One True God.”

  “Do you yourself?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wonder…” Cecil ventured. “Do you remember when I used to speak to you about Our Lord and our faith?”

  “I remember it well. You are wondering if your words affected me.”

  “I should be glad if perhaps—”

  “Your words did not affect me.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I thought that you were a good man, and this may save your life. Nobody here knows what to do with you.”

  “I see.” Cecil frowned. “Please tell me, for people say different things, what caused the Taiping to be Christian?”

  “Years ago, our leader, the One True King, was given some Christian tracts. Perhaps they came from an American missionary on one of the opium smuggling boats. I do not know. But wherever they came from, our leader put them away and forgot about them. Sometime later, however, he chanced to read them and immediately received a divine revelation. He began to preach. People gathered around him, and the movement was born.”

  “The Heavenly Kingdom.”

  “Nanjing is about to become the Heavenly Capital.”

  “Your One True King says he is the younger brother of Jesus?”

  “That is so. We call Jesus Heavenly Elder Brother.”

  “But Jesus lived a long time ago.”

  “All things are possible to God.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss that later. And you believe in brotherly love, goodness, and kindness to all mankind?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I have heard that many Manchu were killed here.”

  “It is true. They lived in the quarter around the old Ming palace. The Manchu are not true Chinese. They have trampled upon our people. And they are idolaters, too. When they fought us, we killed them all.”

  “The women and children, too?”

  “God told His people to kill all the idolaters.”

  “It is better to love and convert them.”

  “They weren’t willing.” Nio paused. “You missionaries used the evil opium trade to spread the Gospel. And we’re killing some Manchus to establish God’s Heavenly Kingdom. That’s all.”

  “What will the Heavenly Kingdom be like?”

  “It is here,” said Nio. “I will show you tomorrow.”

  * * *

  —

  They gave Cecil a good breakfast in the morning. Then Nio arrived and took him out into the street. It was a sunny day. They went westwards.

  There were plenty of people about. The stores were open. Everything seemed normal. And yet, Cecil thought, something felt strange—as if this wasn’t China, but some other land.

  And then he realized: None of the men were wearing the queue, the pigtail down their back, the sign of their servitude to the Manchu. Chinese men had worn the queue for so many generations now that foreigners supposed it was how the Chinese looked. But no man in China had worn a pigtail during the centuries of the Ming dynasty or the Tang or the Han or any dynasty before. He’d observed the Taiping warriors with their long hair on his way to Nanjing. But now he saw a whole population in their natural state. No wonder it seemed strange.

  They passed a small Buddhist temple. The statues in the courtyard had been smashed. He frowned. Why did it offend him? Because they were perhaps works of art? Or was it the destructive anger he sensed in the deed?

  “Soon,” Nio remarked, “that will be a church to the One True God.”

  They passed a weaving works, then a large storehouse.

  “What’s that?” Cecil asked.

  “The main granary,” Nio replied. “It’s for all the people now. No more merchants profiteering on the people’s food. This is the Earthly Paradise. All men are equal. No private property. Everything is shared in common. Nobody goes hungry. To each according to his need.” He looked at Whiteparish questioningly. “This is how the followers of Jesus lived after he rose into the sky, is it not?”

  “It wasn’t quite that simple,” said Cecil, but he didn’t argue.

  They came to what might have been a barracks, though Cecil saw no soldiers there.

  “Women’s quarters,” Nio explained. “The single men and women are not allowed to mix. No immorality.”

  “And if any should stray from the path of chastity…?”

  “They are executed,” Nio answered firmly. He pointed up the street. “That is the palace of the East King. It was a prince’s palace before, I think.”

  “Tell me about the East King.”

  “The Heavenly Kingdom will be ruled by the Heavenly King, whom we also call Lord of Ten Thousand Years. But he will have four lesser kings.”

  “That has been done in many empires before. Genghis Khan’s empire, for instance. And ancient Ireland.”

  “I know nothing of that.”

  “Tell me more about the Heavenly King. I know he is a Hakka, but what was his story?”

  “He was a poor student. He worked hard and passed first in the local examinations. But though he tried four times, he could not pass the provi
ncial examination in Canton. They say many candidates pass by bribing the examiners, but he did not. God sent him a vision and told him he was His younger son. But for a long time he did not understand the vision. At last he read the tracts and understood his mission. He began to preach. Followers came to him. That is how the Heavenly Kingdom began.”

  “He truly believes he is the second son of God?”

  “He does.”

  They followed the broad street until they came in sight of a large palace behind a high wall. “That is where the Heavenly King lives,” said Nio.

  “I should like to meet him,” Cecil remarked.

  “That will not be possible.”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  “Of course.”

  They advanced towards the palace gates. And they had nearly reached them when a little procession emerged—a line of brightly colored carriages and sedan chairs, well guarded, and through whose windows Cecil could see what appeared to be richly dressed court ladies. “Is he coming out?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Who are they, then?”

  “Those are the wives of the Heavenly King.”

  “How many wives does he have?”

  “Seventeen.” Nio glanced at the missionary and saw his surprise. “It is necessary for the Heavenly King to have many wives, like the emperor,” he explained. “Otherwise he would not be regarded as a king.”

  “I hardly think…” Cecil began.

  “Your rulers do not have wives and concubines?”

  “Well…” Cecil wanted to refute it, but a need for honesty prevented him. Who could deny that, from King Solomon in Jerusalem to the most Christian monarchs of even his own time, the rulers of the West had usually had many women? Only in the United States in modern times was the case otherwise—and he was not quite sure even about that. He decided to change the subject. “Tell me,” he asked, “what is it that you yourself desire to find in the Heavenly Kingdom?”

  “An end to oppression. An end to corruption. Justice. Truth. The rule of the good people.”