China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “I do, Grandfather.”

  “Well, that’s what’s in there. I want you to keep it as a present from me in memory of this visit.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather.” The boy looked overjoyed.

  “You must keep that always,” said his father.

  “I will,” Bao-Yu promised.

  “Goodbye then,” said Shi-Rong. And he stayed by the gate and watched them go up the lane until they were out of sight.

  * * *

  —

  An hour later, he sat at the table in his small library. The two scrolls he had prepared were in front of him. No need to change them. Everything had worked out exactly as he’d hoped. He was almost ready to walk over to Mr. Gu’s house.

  But there was one small duty that perhaps he should perform. He’d been thinking about it for some time.

  Mei-Ling. That money she’d asked him for at Bright Moon’s wedding.

  He’d been so shocked by the turn of events just then, so shaken by the loss of all that money he’d expected to make, that having spent enough already on the wedding, he’d told himself he couldn’t part with anything more. Looking back now, he realized that it would have made no difference to him at all.

  He could so easily have rectified the business. But having refused at the time, he had thought for no good reason that it would make him look weak if he relented. So he’d done nothing. Almost forgotten it. And he realized to his shame that he didn’t even know for certain whether Mei-Ling was still alive. He imagined she probably was.

  Those about to die, he thought, should keep good accounts.

  He went to the cabinet and took out a small square box, tightly packed with silver. It was more than Mei-Ling had asked for. Closing the box and sealing it, he wrapped it carefully in a piece of silk brocade, tied it, and sealed the knot. Then he placed it in a leather bag.

  After this he sat down at his desk again and wrote a letter to Bright Moon, letting her know that, if her mother was still alive, she should apply to Mr. Gu, who was holding a package for her. Then he gave orders for the groom to attend on him directly.

  * * *

  —

  The sun was already high in the clear blue sky as they walked to Mr. Gu’s house. Shi-Rong carried the two scrolls and the letter in a satchel; the groom had the leather bag slung over his shoulder. When they reached the scholar’s little hill farm, Shi-Rong took the leather bag and told the groom he could return home.

  Old Mr. Gu was delighted to see him. He was in a cheerful mood. “Look at this perfect autumn day. Did you see the big storms they had upriver? And we got nothing but a shower or two. I was composing a poem just before you arrived. Would you like to help me? Shall we do it together?”

  “I really want to talk to you,” said Shi-Rong. “I have a favor to ask.”

  “Of course. Of course. Let’s sit down then and you can tell me all about it.”

  “The fact is,” said Shi-Rong, “that I’m going to kill myself today.”

  “Really? That is a surprise. Are you sure? Why do you want to do that? It’s not at all a Confucian thing to do, you know. It’s really allowed only in special circumstances.”

  “I know. I want you to read this.” And Shi-Rong gave him one of the two scrolls.

  Mr. Gu read in silence for a minute or two.

  “Your criticism of the goings-on at court is exactly right, I must say. Whether the country can be saved by the emperor taking charge, I’m not so sure. But I’m sure Confucius would endorse your message entirely. So are you trying to be another Wu the Censor? Do you want to body-shame Cixi? Wu actually wrote his protest in a poem, as you know.”

  “Not exactly. That’s where you come in. Firstly, Wu the Censor’s magnificent effort should not be copied. It stands alone. I’m not worthy to imitate him. Secondly, I am not addressing this to the court. It’s addressed to the community of scholars. I’m blaming them for not uniting to advise the court.”

  “You don’t want to attack Cixi directly.”

  “Exactly. Partly because I don’t want to bring down her wrath upon my son. In fact, I was ready to delay the whole thing if it would damage his career. But he says he has no chance of getting anywhere, and he wants to retire.”

  “That is understandable.”

  “And also because I think that, in the long run, agitating the scholars will be far more effective.”

  “And you take your life to show them your commitment.”

  “Exactly. I want you to wait until my son—who knows nothing of this, of course—is safely retired on the estate, and then circulate my protest to a small group of scholars. Not too widely. Just let it seep out.”

  “That’s clever. Your name will live on. You’ll be honored.”

  “In a small way. Quietly. That’s all I want.”

  “You made two copies.”

  “Yes. I’d like you to give one to my son. But not yet. In a year or two, perhaps.”

  “You’ve thought it all out. What’s in the leather bag?”

  “Ah. A second and unrelated favor. Would you send this letter to my adopted daughter and hold the box in the leather bag until she or her mother makes arrangements to collect it?”

  “I don’t see why not. How will you kill yourself?”

  “Hanging is the normally approved method in these circumstances. It does less violence to the body than other methods.”

  “That’s true. You should probably hang yourself. Shall we go down and have a look at the river? Then we can have tea, and you can help me with my poem before you go.”

  * * *

  —

  They stood on the towpath just above the water, gazing at the huge yellow-brown expanse before them. The rains had certainly swollen the river. Instead of its usual placid flow, the vast stream had become a torrent, or rather, a moving sea with roiling waves.

  “Look at that!” cried the old man. “The mighty Yellow River in all its majesty and power. The soul of our ancient land. How lucky we are to live here.”

  “We certainly are,” Shi-Rong agreed.

  They watched it in silence for a minute or two, then turned to go back.

  “I’m not sure that it’s really necessary for you to kill yourself,” Mr. Gu remarked. “Why not delay a bit? I could still send out the letter, you know.”

  “It’s better this way,” said Shi-Rong. “It completes everything.”

  “You could work on your calligraphy.”

  “I know. By the way, could you send someone up to the Shaolin Monastery tomorrow? Ask the abbot to give my son a message that his father died. He and my grandson are visiting there.”

  “As you wish. You’re going to do it tonight?”

  “Yes.”

  “I shall miss you. Perhaps you’ll change your mind later today. Come and see me in the morning if you do.”

  “I will. If I do.”

  * * *

  —

  They descended from the towpath together. Shi-Rong offered to accompany the old man home, but Mr. Gu said there was no need and set off with his stick along the path that led across the big expanse of open ground before it began its steep ascent up the hill towards his home.

  Shi-Rong didn’t want to go home yet himself. It was quite exciting to watch the huge waters of the Yellow River in full spate, and he wouldn’t be seeing them again. So he went back onto the towpath. Several times he turned to watch Mr. Gu’s progress. From the high bank he could see him quite well. After a time the old man was just a little dot in the distance, but he could make out his tiny form slowly mounting the track that rose from the valley floor. He caught his last glimpse of him just as he neared his little farm, tucked into the trees some three hundred feet above the valley.

  For another half hour he watched the big river, which was carrying away all kinds of branches and othe
r detritus that had fallen into its churning waves.

  Everything in nature was flux, he thought. And if the Yellow River was anything to go by, the great flux had no end.

  At last, it seemed to him, it was time to go. He’d seen all he needed. Descending from the towpath, he took the track that would take him in a more westerly direction, towards his own home.

  He walked slowly. There was no hurry. The plan was complete. Perfect.

  And he had gone a quarter of a mile across the valley floor when, behind him, he heard the strangest roar.

  Then Jiang Shi-Rong turned, looked back in terror, and began to run.

  But the waters of the Yellow River were swifter and infinitely greater than he as they swept all before them.

  * * *

  —

  The great flood of the Yellow River, when it broke its banks at Huayuankou and rushed across the broad valley, sweeping farms, villages, and towns before it, was worse than any tsunami from the sea because, being one of the greatest rivers on the earth, and flowing as it did above the surrounding land, it kept coming on. And on. And continued without ceasing.

  It is estimated that nine hundred thousand people lost their lives.

  The ancestral home of Shi-Rong’s family, being well above the valley, was not touched. Neither of course was the Shaolin Monastery high in the mountains. Nor Mr. Gu’s little hill farm.

  But of Mr. Gu’s neighbor and pupil Shi-Rong, there was no sign at all.

  February 1900

  Dr. Cunningham looked at old Trader. He had two lady patients in their nineties; after them came John Trader of Drumlomond. He was the type, of course. Tall, athletic, no fat on him. They were the men who lasted longest, in his experience.

  “I cannot answer for you if you undertake this journey,” he declared.

  “You can’t answer for me if I don’t,” Trader replied cheerfully. “I’m nearly ninety.”

  “Take your medicine and avoid stress. Can you do that?”

  “I should think so. A long voyage. Good ship. I may get bored, but not stressed, I imagine. All I have to do then is take the train up to Peking. I’ll be staying with my daughter in the mission, which is safely inside the Inner City. Can’t see much stress there.”

  “You’re determined to go?”

  “I’d like to see Emily again before it’s too late. I haven’t met her youngest boy yet, either. It’s about ten years since she and her husband last came back.” He smiled. “Not sure I can wait much longer.”

  “Well then, I suppose you’d better go.” Dr. Cunningham put away his stethoscope. “What’s going on in China, anyway? I read the papers, but I can’t make head nor tail of the place. Do you understand it?”

  “I think so. They tried to modernize, but never got very far with it. So everybody’s been taking advantage—especially the Japanese. You know the Japanese smashed the Chinese navy, just five years ago. Now they’ve got control of the Korean peninsula as well. To add insult to injury, they also grabbed the island of Taiwan.”

  “That’s Formosa, isn’t it?”

  “Different name, same place. Right off the Chinese coast, between Shanghai and Hong Kong. Absolutely humiliating.”

  “I can never make out if China’s a rich or a poor country.”

  “Both, really. Agricultural of course. Not much industry yet. But wealth underground. I’ve heard there’s a young American prospector called Herbert Hoover who’s looking for anthracite in north China. Gold as well, I believe. So all kinds of possibilities in the future, you might say—when they wake up.”

  “What about the palace coup I read about?”

  “Part and parcel of this business—whether to modernize or not. After the Japanese humiliation, the young Chinese emperor, who’d finally got the old dowager Cixi to retire, announced a sweeping set of reforms. Tried to modernize his empire overnight. Bit naive, I’m afraid. The conservative establishment wasn’t having it. Next thing you know, Cixi’s back in control and the young emperor’s a prisoner in his own palace. Still is, I believe.” He paused. “Not that you ever really know what’s going on in the Forbidden City. It’s the most secretive place on earth.”

  “The old woman’s been ruling through emperors who are boys or weak young men for about forty years, hasn’t she?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “One last question: Who are these people wearing red sashes and turbans who’ve started stirring up trouble? Boxers, they call them. Is it a secret society? Are they like the Taiping?”

  “A sort of nationalist sect. Not the first. You know, get the foreigners and their religion out of China. That sort of thing. And they practice some kind of magical martial arts—that’s why our people call them Boxers. Makes them immune even to bullets, they claim.”

  “Good luck with that,” said the doctor.

  “Popular with the peasants, but only in a few northern provinces. They wear red shirts and turbans. That’s all I know.”

  “Are you worried about your daughter?”

  “I did go to the Foreign Office and have a talk with them. Our man in Peking—minister, as we call him—reports that everything’s quiet enough.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  “Have to see when I get there.”

  Dr. Cunningham looked at his patient quizzically. “I have a feeling this may not be such a quiet holiday as you’re telling me.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “You want to persuade them to come back, don’t you? That’s what you’re really up to.”

  “Not at all,” said Trader. “Just a little holiday in the sun.”

  * * *

  ◦

  It was a May morning in Beijing. Yesterday a wind from the Gobi Desert had swept in like a tsunami, carrying black dust this time, and Emily couldn’t get it out of her hair, which only added to her feeling of discomfort and unease.

  Her father was coming. He might arrive any day. She would have stopped him—except that by the time she got his letter, he was already on his way. She longed to see him, of course; but how was she to look after an old man of nearly ninety, with everything else that was going on?

  The spacious yard of the Anglican mission was dusty. The mission building ran along one side; there were dormitories on two of the other sides. The fourth side was a high wall with a gateway onto the street.

  There were usually a few Chinese converts—men, women, children—squatting or walking about in the yard. But during the last three days there had been a constant trickle of families coming to find shelter there. Before long, the dormitories would be full. What had they seen to frighten them?

  She knew of one thing, of course: the red balloons.

  They’d appeared about ten days ago: first clusters, then great clouds of them, floating up into the sky over Peking. They were a signal from the Boxers, to let the people of the capital know that they’d arrived there. The balloons were an invitation to all good Chinese to join the Boxers; perhaps a warning of trouble if you didn’t. But to the foreigners and those Chinese foolish and disloyal enough to have converted to the barbarians’ religion, the balloons were clearly a threat.

  To be taken seriously? All that most of the converts arriving at the mission would say was: “Better here.”

  The Anglican mission was safely tucked in behind the huge walls of the protected Inner City—the Tartar City, as the foreigners called it—and only a five-minute walk from the Tiananmen Gate.

  Emily saw some new arrivals, a young family who’d turned up with a little handcart piled with their few possessions. But they hadn’t come from the outer Chinese city. She knew they lodged only half a mile away, inside the Tartar quarter. Why were they coming here for sanctuary?

  Then she noticed they were looking towards the gateway of the mission. She followed their gaze and saw a young woman—hardly more than a gi
rl, really—in the street outside. She was wearing a red sash, with a red scarf tied around her head, and she was attaching a poster to the open gate.

  Emily hastened towards the girl in red. “What do you want?” she cried. But the girl took no notice of her at all. Emily reached her and stared at the poster. The message, scrawled in big Chinese characters, was easy enough to understand.

  BARBARIANS OUT. TRAITORS DIE.

  Traitors. That meant the converts. The girl must be a member of one of the brigades of women the Boxers were using now. The Red Lanterns, they were called. She’d heard of them, but this was the first time she’d seen one.

  “Go away!” Emily cried. But the girl in red just stared at her with contempt. Then, taking her time, she walked to the end of the mission wall and calmly pasted another, identical poster there before turning the corner and walking away. Furiously, Emily tore the poster off the gate. The one at the corner proved harder to remove, but she managed to shred it using her fingernails. The Red Lantern girl had vanished—for the time being, at least.

  Having returned to the yard and said a few words to the newly arrived family, Emily went back indoors.

  The night before, Henry had told her there was a rumor that the Boxers had attacked a mission out in the back country and killed all the Chinese converts. Was it true? Were the Boxers planning to do the same thing even here, in the middle of the capital? Surely it couldn’t come to that.

  She thought of her son Tom. Most families like theirs sent their boys back to England to boarding school by the age of seven or eight. But Tom was their last. They’d kept him with them as long as they felt they could. He was nearly eleven now, and they’d been preparing to part with him at the end of the year. Should Tom go straightaway? Was it right to keep him here if there was so much danger?

  She’d been turning the problem over in her mind for a quarter of an hour when she heard a sound at the front door. “Tom?” she called out. “Henry?”