China

by Edward Rutherfurd

“No. I just wondered. Don’t write. Goodnight.” After all, Trader thought, if celibacy was what his wife desired, he had no wish to make demands that were repugnant to her.

  * * *

  ◦

  The first time Shi-Rong saw Mei-Ling was in the autumn of that year. As magistrate for the area, he was making a tour of inspection when he came to the hamlet where she lived. The villagers had seen his cavalcade approaching and they were clustered in the lane to watch him pass. The headman had welcomed him and offered refreshment, but it was only midmorning and there was no reason to stop, so Shi-Rong thanked him but proceeded on his way.

  He caught sight of Mei-Ling just as he was leaving. She was standing beside the lane with a thickset friendly-looking peasant—her husband, perhaps—and three or four others. Peasants, certainly. None of the women had bound feet. But they appeared a little better dressed than most villagers.

  He turned to his secretary, Sun, who was riding beside him. “Did you notice that pretty woman? Rich peasant, would you say?”

  “Yes, Lord.” Sun had been with him five years now. He still didn’t know Sun’s age, exactly. Maybe he was forty-five. It didn’t matter. Tall, almost cadaverous, silent, trustworthy Sun had no ambition. His presence was restful. “One of the headman’s family, perhaps.”

  “Did you notice her complexion?”

  Whether one was in a great city or the depths of the country, nearly everyone had some physical flaw. Most adults past a certain age had missing teeth, of course. They might have a squint, a mole on their face, a damaged arm or leg. Accidents and disease were the common lot of the people in every land, he imagined. Yet so far as he could see, this peasant woman was perfect in every way. Beautiful. Flawless. He almost stopped the cavalcade. He wanted to linger. At the least, he wished to ascertain if she was truly as perfect as she seemed.

  “We have business to attend to elsewhere, Lord,” said Sun.

  “I know.” Shi-Rong sighed. “I’ve been away from my wife too long. You know,” he continued, “if I hadn’t been told this was only a temporary appointment and that I’d soon be sent elsewhere, I would have brought my family here. I thought it was less disruptive to leave them at home until I had a better establishment to receive them.”

  “I understand, Lord.”

  “All the same…Perhaps I should send for them.” He paused. “I thought I’d get something better than this by now,” he murmured.

  After his father’s death, he’d used his time pretty well. First he’d studied at the family estate; then he’d gone back to old Mr. Wen in Beijing. He’d passed his exams—not with outstanding honors, but well enough to put him in line for a good career. And he’d married. The daughter of the prefect of a province. An appropriate marriage. They were happy enough.

  “It’s a pity that Commissioner Lin has died,” said Sun.

  “It was he who first got me a job as a magistrate,” Shi-Rong acknowledged. “But I doubt he could do more for me now, even if he were alive.”

  Lin had regained his good name. To some, he was a hero. He’d even been made governor of a province again, though not an important one. But he’d never advanced beyond that point.

  “The fact is, anyone connected with the Opium War is under a cloud at court,” Shi-Rong remarked. “The emperor thought quite well of me, but he’s dead, too, and the new emperor doesn’t know me at all.”

  “At least, Lord, you have a fine family estate on the Yellow River to go back to. Few magistrates have such good fortune.”

  “Which is why they take bribes. You know I have never taken a bribe.”

  “I do, Lord. You are greatly to be commended.”

  “Good fortune may be a blessing. It may also be a curse. Perhaps, if I were a poorer man, I might strive harder. I do not know. What do you think?”

  “I cannot say, Lord. But I am glad I am not ambitious. It never seems to make people happy.”

  “Tell me, Sun—I know you are a Buddhist—what do you expect to be in your next incarnation?”

  “Something peaceful, I hope, Lord.”

  “Well, you deserve it.” Shi-Rong nodded. “I think I should go back for that pretty woman we just saw.” He glanced at his secretary, saw the look of concern on his face, and laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t.”

  Nor did Shi-Rong pass through the hamlet again during the course of that year or the year after.

  * * *

  ◦

  Mei-Ling remembered that day, but not because of Shi-Rong. She’d hardly even seen his face. She remembered it because that night her sister-in-law had gone into labor for the eighth time. And by morning poor Willow was dead. She left four living children, the youngest a boy.

  Willow’s life had not been very happy and would have been worse if it hadn’t been for Mei-Ling. This wasn’t so much because Mei-Ling tried to be kind to her, though she did. But the fact that every time poor Willow produced another daughter, Mei-Ling had produced another son seemed to deflect the rage that Mother would otherwise have felt towards her elder daughter-in-law. The family matriarch came to regard Willow as a lost cause, an unfortunate fact of nature, like bad weather. When at last Willow did produce a son, she was treated in the same manner as a useless employee who finally does something right, but cannot be relied upon to do so again. And now she was dead. What did it signify?

  As it happened, a turning point.

  Old Mr. Lung had been so proud of his little opium ceremonies and furious when Commissioner Lin’s campaign stopped his supplies. When in due course the opium had become available again, he’d laid in a considerable quantity. He could afford it. Indeed, guests were treated to a visit to the storeroom where his cases of opium were kept, which greatly impressed them.

  “If any interfering mandarin starts throwing opium into the sea again, he won’t worry me,” the old man would declare.

  “No, Mr. Lung,” his guest would agree respectfully.

  But the British opium trade had continued, so there was an excess available in the house. Old Mr. Lung’s sessions became more frequent. He attended less to his business, and in due course bought more opium than he had before. Sometimes Elder Son would join him in these sessions. Second Son never did. He was offered the chance, but he always smiled and said he was happy as he was. He just went about his tasks on the land as usual, and old Mr. Lung and his elder brother attended to the loans and the collection of rents and the other business.

  So when one night old Mr. Lung slipped into unconsciousness after his usual evening smoke and never awoke, it came as a shock to discover that there wasn’t much money left. There were all kinds of loans due to him and other complex arrangements that Elder Son declared were all safely in his head, but somehow the loans were never collected, and though his mother demanded to know who owed what, so she could go and collect the money herself, Elder Son proved surprisingly obstinate about supplying the information.

  “I am the head of the family now,” he reminded her, as if that solved anything. And though Second Son did try to get some sense out of him, as he truly said to Mei-Ling, “If he isn’t going to tell Mother, he certainly isn’t going to tell me.” They even tried to enlist the help of Willow, but she only bowed gracefully to her husband’s authority, which was no use at all.

  So the rents were paid in arrears, if at all. Several of the villagers bought their rented fields from him, at reduced prices. Even the family house was beginning to show some signs of neglect, although Second Son attended to all the repairs himself.

  And then, that night after the magistrate passed through, Willow had died.

  Elder Son seemed to have lost his desire to do anything much after that. He smoked more opium. His raw-boned body became thin and wasted. He hardly had energy to attend to any business at all. And if he did manage to bestir himself to collect some of the remaining rents, for instance, his tenants t
reated him almost as if he were a vagrant seeking charity, instead of their landlord. Mother did manage to transact some of the family business, but even her fierce spirit was becoming tired.

  One day Mei-Ling went to the secret place where the silver Nio had given her was buried. She took a little of it and gave it to Mother. “It’s for the house,” she said. “Not for opium.” A few months later she had to go to the secret place again. A few visits more and all the silver was gone.

  A sense of torpor and neglect descended upon the Lung family house after that. People didn’t come there anymore.

  It was two and a half years after Willow’s death when the Americans arrived.

  * * *

  —

  The three men had set out from Canton a week ago. Now they sat drinking together after their meal at the small town’s only inn. Read was smoking a cigar. He looked just as big, hard, and burly as he had almost twenty years ago. Some grey hairs, some deeper lines. Few other changes. His son, Franklin, was a dark-haired, handsome young fellow of eighteen or so. The third was Cecil Whiteparish.

  * * *

  —

  When Read had turned up in Hong Kong and asked if there was a merchant called Trader there, it was natural enough that he should have been directed to the mission house, where he found Cecil Whiteparish.

  “Mr. Trader is a kinsman of mine,” Cecil explained. “But I’m afraid he lives with his family in Scotland now—I can give you his address if you want to write to him.” He’d smiled. “I’m rather busy at this moment, but if you’d care to come to my house this evening, my wife will feed us, and I can give you all the news about my cousin John.”

  It had been a very pleasant evening. Read had been delighted to hear about Trader’s good fortune and his burgeoning family. The Whiteparishes had given him some account of the activities of the mission and its converts. And then Minnie had asked: “What has brought you to Hong Kong just now, Mr. Read?”

  “Railways, ma’am,” Read answered easily. “Or to be precise, railway workers. I mean to find them in the villages down the coast from Canton and take them to America.”

  “Will they wish to go so far?” she asked.

  “They already have.” And seeing her look surprised: “During the California Gold Rush, back in ’48 and the years following, quite a few adventuresome fellows from the Cantonese coastland heard about it from Western sailors and thought they’d try their luck. I shipped a few of them across the Pacific myself. Sailors. Smugglers, I daresay. All kinds of good fellows.”

  “What do you think impelled them?” asked Whiteparish.

  “I’d probably have done the same in their place,” Read answered. “You remember how it was here, after the Opium War. The government was broke. The men along the coast heard about the Gum Shan, the American mountain of gold. They went to the Klondike like everyone else, and most came out empty-handed. Plenty of them are still in California—running small restaurants, laundries, that sort of thing. But now we’re looking for something different. That’s why we’re going inland.”

  “Men to build railroads.”

  “Yes. Local railroads, in California first. But soon there’ll be a railroad stretching right across America, from California to New England. It’s got to come. They’ll need a lot of labor.”

  “Don’t the Irish supply that?” Cecil asked.

  “They do. But my guess is the railroad men want to give the Irish a little competition. Keep them in line, you know.”

  “Why Chinese?”

  “They aren’t as strong as the Irish, but they’re very steady. They drink tea instead of alcohol. They give no trouble. I’m not looking for gold diggers,” Read said. “I want honest farming men who’ve fallen on hard times. Men who’ll work hard and send money back to their families. I believe we’ll find them in the villages.”

  “When do you set off?” asked Cecil.

  “Any day. I just need to find a couple of porters, a local guide, and an interpreter. I speak a bit of Cantonese, but not enough.” A thought struck him. “I wonder if you’ve got any converts who might act as interpreter with the locals. Any suggestions?”

  Cecil considered. “Let me think. Come by the mission tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll let you know if I’ve got anyone.”

  * * *

  —

  Young Franklin looked at his father and the missionary. Then he glanced across to where the two local men who acted as porters and guides were sitting apart with the owner of the inn, talking quietly in the local dialect.

  It was exciting to be on an adventure with his father in this hinterland. He wondered what the next day would bring.

  It had been such a surprise when Whiteparish had volunteered himself as their interpreter. His first thought had been that the missionary might not be up to the physical challenges of the business. But although his hair was thinning, Whiteparish seemed quite a tough, wiry sort of man, so Franklin assumed he’d be all right.

  His father had raised another sort of question. “How does your lady wife feel about your traveling with us?”

  “She says that a man needs an adventure now and then.” Cecil had smiled. “Glad to get me out of the house for a bit, I expect.”

  “And the mission?”

  “Ah. That’s just the point. Besides Hong Kong, we now have a small subsidiary mission outside Canton. The Chinese don’t much like it, though they turn a blind eye. I was due to visit that mission soon in any case. But I’ve been thinking for a while that I should also venture out into the backcountry, talk to the local people, that sort of thing. Not easy to do by oneself. So when you turned up with your plan for an expedition, I thought: This might be the perfect opportunity.”

  “Do you mean to bring tracts?” Read had wanted to know.

  “No. If the local authorities stop and search us, that might get everyone in trouble.” He gave them a wry smile. “One gets more cautious with time. I prefer talking to people, telling them what I believe and why. You never know where that may lead.” He nodded. “There’s another factor as well.”

  “The Taiping?”

  “Exactly. I’ve been to Nanjing. The Taiping are not really Christians. I’m certain of that. They’ve imbibed a few ideas that are Christian. Before they moved north, there were quite a few Taiping in this region, and I’m wondering if they may have left behind some notions that we could correct and build upon. This little expedition may allow me to find out.”

  “You’re a spy, then,” young Franklin had cried, then glanced at his father, who gave him a look that said, “You’re on your own now, son.”

  “A spy for God,” Cecil replied. “Though the Almighty already knows everything,” he’d added cheerfully.

  “Indeed,” said Franklin.

  Before they turned in, however, Whiteparish insisted on going over the order of business a final time. He addressed himself to Read. “You’ll take these men, these volunteers, from Canton to America. And the Chinese volunteers won’t pay you for their passage, the railroad bosses will.”

  “Correct. I charge ’em up to a hundred dollars a head, delivered and guaranteed. I carry other cargo as well, to make it worth my while.”

  “Effectively then, these Chinese will be indentured servants until they’ve worked off the cost of their voyage. And history tells us that in practice, an indentured man can become a slave.”

  “It’s true.” Read drew on his cigar. “And I know of Chinese servants in California who are in exactly that position.”

  “I’m not sure I like it, Read.”

  “Nor do I. So I made a deal with the railroad men. I’ll take back any of my Chinese that aren’t satisfactory after a month; and if any of the Chinese want to leave, I’ll take them back, too, and refund the fare.”

  “That could be an expensive proposition for you.”

  “I doubt it. These
Chinese are going to make pretty good money. They all live together. They form little teams and gangs of their own. It comes naturally to them. My guess is that as soon as the big coast-to-coast railroad starts building, I’ll be filling my ships every season with Chinese as eager to go as the railroad men are to have them. Half of them will probably settle in America.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right.”

  “And I hope you trust me.”

  “Oh yes.” The missionary smiled. “I trust you.”

  * * *

  —

  When they came to the little hamlet the next day, they asked for the headman, and Whiteparish explained what they were looking for. The headman was uncertain. “I have heard of men from the big city going to this land across the ocean to work,” he said. “But I don’t know what happens to them when they arrive, or if they ever return.”

  “They are well paid,” said Whiteparish. “Some stay there and some return.”

  “What is this iron road you speak of? And this engine like a dragon that races along it? Have we such a thing in China?”

  “No.”

  “Does it work?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does the emperor or the governor allow men to leave like this?”

  “We shall not ask them.”

  “There are men here who need money,” the headman confessed. “I will call the village together.”

  And so Cecil Whiteparish explained Read’s offer to the assembled village, and after that, for an hour, he interpreted the many questions the villagers had and Read’s answers. And when they were finished, around noon, he and the Reads went on towards the next hamlet, promising to return the next day to collect any men who wished to go to America.

  * * *

  —

  That night was warm, and the moon was riding high in the clear sky over the hamlet when Mei-Ling and Second Son walked down from the house to the pond, and they stood on the little bridge together, talking quietly.