The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  In fact, that last winter of the old century was characterised by forgetfulness. It could be said that with the first scattering of snow in November a deliberate amnesia had descended on both Chinese and foreign residents of Shishan alike. They went about their business. They made their plans. They conspired and schemed, and enjoyed themselves, in the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure or in their drawing rooms. The Boxers were no longer an item of discussion in the Airton household, whatever lurid editorials they read in the North China Herald. And for a while, even in the teahouses run by the Black Sticks, men no longer listened to that hypnotic music from the south, emanating from village and temple, which had briefly enticed them earlier in the year; nor were they affected by the deep magic that had been evoked from the depths of the earth and the dawn of time, mingling explosively with the piteous cries of a suffering people; the clarion call that had been sounded by the Boxers, urging the gods to leave their heavenly palaces and pleasures, to join the righteous ones below in the ever-growing and ever-invincible army gathering to drive the foreigners into the ocean. It was an attractive idea—the denizens of heaven marching in their multitudes down the rays of the setting sun, their spears and banners glinting in all the colours of the rainbow, ready to stand invisibly behind the loyal warriors of the Harmonious Fists, strengthening them with their magic, ensuring their victory—but on the whole the inhabitants of Shishan were more interested in eating their dumplings and camel’s hump, and counting their taels of silver after the season’s trading. And the Airtons had their Christmas decorations to put up.

  It was therefore with some shock when, shortly after New Year’s Day—that special and unforgettable Hogmanay when the children had been allowed to stay up until after midnight and usher in the new century—that they heard the news that a young English missionary, Sidney Brooks, had been cruelly murdered in faraway Shantung. Apparently he had been set upon while riding alone along a country road on the evening of the last day of the old year. Nobody initially mentioned Boxers—but everyone knew.

  The winter’s hibernation from reality was over.

  A week or so afterwards, Dr Airton received a letter from a friend in Tsinan who had known Mr Brooks and who had learned the grisly details of his slaughter. The naked body had been discovered in a ditch. He had been slashed and mutilated by a thousand knife wounds. His head had been cut off. Most horrible was that his killers had made a hole in his nose, through which they had tied a string. In his last moments, the poor man had been led like a donkey by his jeering captors. The remarkable thing was that Mr Brooks had apparently had a premonition of his fate. During Christmas he had told his sister that he had dreamed he had seen his name on a tablet of martyrs hanging in the cloisters of his old college. The letter concluded that this was indeed what Mr Brooks had become: a Christian martyr who had died joyously for his faith and the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

  A week or so after this, the doctor received a letter from a missionary friend who had a practice near Baoding in southwestern Chih-li. He was announcing his decision to return to England. The authorities in his district had turned a blind eye to Boxer activities long enough, he wrote; these were becoming daily more outrageous and menacing, with the result that he had become nervous for the safety of his wife and children. ‘Weathers always was timid,’ Airton had muttered to Nellie over his coffee. ‘Never thought he was cut out for the missionary life in the first place.’

  ‘At least he shows some concern for the well-being of his family,’ Nellie replied. ‘Which is more than can be said for some. At least Mr Weathers isn’t hiding his head in the sand.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean? Who’s hiding his head in the sand, Nellie? I’ve taken the wisest counsel and I am assured there is nothing to fear from the Boxers. At any rate, not in Shishan.’

  ‘So you say, dear, but I’m mindful of my bairns.’

  ‘This isn’t like you, my dearest.’ He leaned across the table and took her hand. ‘It’s the servants’ gossiping again, isn’t it? You really must stop Jenny and George from tattling with Ah Lee and taking credence of his nonsense. I promise you that if I hear anything concrete, I’ll put you and the children on the first boat away from China. And if it should come to that I’ll follow myself. But there is no cause for alarm, my dear, none at all. Come, Nellie, you and I’ve lived in China long enough not to worry about the odd bit of rumour and scaremongering. And, anyway, I of all people will certainly be the first to hear if anything is likely to threaten us. The Mandarin will warn me. We can rely on that. You know he will.’

  There were no more murders. In fact, the killers of Mr Brooks were quickly discovered and executed by the authorities. Confusingly they were discovered to have been both bandits and Boxers—or, rather, a bandit gang that had taken to wearing the costume of martial artists. ‘So nothing’s proved either way,’ said the doctor, ‘and, anyway, it all happened a long way from here.’

  But the matter was not to be dropped so lightly. Jenny’s godfather, Dr Wilson, like Airton a member of the Scottish Medical Mission, and his best friend in China, wrote a long letter towards the middle of February. The previous year he had become attached to a China Inland Mission hospital near Taiyuanfu. He described how just in the last two months, the Boxer craze had suddenly erupted westward over the borders of Chih-li into Shansi, and had spread like wildfire. In the villages in his district Boxers were being allowed openly to practise their martial arts in the temple squares and sometimes they were building their altars in front of the very gates of the yamens themselves. Tensions were brewing between the convert families and the peasants whose sons were flocking to join the Boxer bands. Even the local gentry were sponsoring martial-arts societies. Dr Wilson had not been downcast. He had heard that Peking had appointed a powerful new governor to take charge of the province. He expected that the imminent arrival of this strongman would put an end to the disorder.

  ‘What did I tell you, Nellie?’ said Airton, when he had finished reading her this letter. ‘This demonstrates what the Government thinks of rebels like the Boxers. Another show of force and the Boxers will disappear back into the puff of smoke of superstition and folklore they emerged from.’

  When three weeks later, Dr Wilson wrote again, however, it was to express his disappointment and surprise that the new strongman turned out to be that same Viceroy Yu who had been dismissed from his post in Shantung last year for his pro-Boxer sympathies. Far from sending his troops to bring the Boxers to order, he had enlisted a knot of martial artists as his personal guard. Nellie and the doctor exchanged few words after the reading of this letter. The clink of knives and forks on plates was the only sound breaking the oppressive silence that had descended.

  The only comfort now was that these things were still happening far away.

  But it was no longer a complacent foreign community that gathered at Herr Fischer’s railway camp on a cold day at the end of March to greet the arrival of the first steam train from Tientsin.

  Eight

  We watched the martial artists in the square: a boy broke an iron bar with his fists.

  Herr Fischer, dressed in a shining top hat and an oversized tailcoat, peered uncomfortably through his binoculars. A large and curious crowd had followed the Mandarin’s palanquin down the main thoroughfare of the town, out of the city gates and into the countryside beyond. Fischer could see the dust swirling above the winter hedgerows. The procession must number hundreds, he thought. Although he could not yet distinguish any human shapes he could see the tops of several banners and a score of kites, hear the bray of horns and the rising swell of voices. The prospect of the first fire-cart’s arrival in Shishan had clearly aroused a good deal of excitement among the common people. He wondered if he had prepared enough space for them all to stand.

  He reached into his waistcoat pocket and consulted his watch. He calculated that the procession was still some twenty minutes away from the railway camp. It was important that the Mandarin was in his seat on the
raised platform under the flags and bunting a quarter of an hour before the engine steamed into view. It would be a near-run thing. He had already heard the whistle of a train. It must long ago have penetrated the tunnel and would even now be on the plain. He comforted himself that Engineer Bowers was a steady, reliable man who had been given instructions to time his arrival at Shishan at exactly twelve noon. There was still time. It was not yet ten past eleven.

  He and Charlie had planned everything to the last detail. He was pleased with the dignitaries’ platform, which also had the appearance of a pavilion. Despite the cold March weather outside, the heavy felt flaps and the charcoal stoves kept the inside adequately warm, so much so that the foreign guests had taken off their heavy fur coats. Refreshments were ready on the boards at the back and the servants had been well drilled. All that was needed was for the Mandarin to appear.

  Nervously he ran his eyes over the notes for his speech. ‘Your Honourable High Excellency,’ he practised. ‘It is my extreme pleasure and honour…’ No, ‘honour’ was too close to ‘honourable’. That was repetition. ‘Your Gracious High Excellency,’ he tried. ‘Your Estimable High Excellency.’ It was no use. He would have to swallow his pride and ask the Honourable Manners for advice. The man was arrogant and disrespectful, but he was of noble birth and should know the correct protocols of address in high society—even if he did not always choose to behave like a true gentleman himself. Even today he was not wearing the formal attire Herr Fischer thought suitable for such an occasion. He glared at the Englishman, smoking abstractedly in the seat behind him. An official of the railways, dressed in a brown suit! He suspected that this inappropriate casualness was affected only to annoy him. Herr Fischer looked beyond him at the other foreigners seated in a cheerful row on the ceremonial platform. At least the doctor, Mr Delamere and Mr Cabot had all made the effort to dress properly, although perhaps the top hat was a trifle small on Mr Cabot’s large head and his frockcoat looked stretched on his broad shoulders. That did not matter. Not at all, he decided. It was the principle of it. Doing things properly.

  He had no complaints about the ladies. Mrs Airton was extremely becoming in her wide, flowered hat, and the narrow-waisted blue-striped dress with the fashionable puffed sleeves. Herr Fischer had always considered her a magnificent woman. He admired her noble carriage and her striking auburn hair. Besides, he had always been impressed by the way in which, even in this barbaric country, she managed to run a neat and tidy home to make a husband proud. If she had been a German, she could not have been a greater credit to her household. He noted approvingly that her children were cleanly scrubbed and engagingly dressed in sailor costumes. They were sitting quietly, staring in wonder at the newly finished bridge bedecked with flags, the neat ranks of the coolies marshalled on either side of the track with their hammers and pickaxes sloped on their shoulders, the band tuning their instruments, and the polished silver rails, which stretched proudly from out of the far distance to the buffers in front of the grandstand. Yes, it was indeed something to stare at. A magnificent achievement, completed according to schedule. A modern railway for a modern China. His eyes misted momentarily. He and his friend Charlie had a right to be proud. Even in a small way, they were making history.

  Clearing his throat, he looked beyond the Airtons and the two nuns—heavens, they seemed to be more excited than the children—to where Miss Delamere was seated next to her fiancé. As usual she radiated freshness and beauty, and a touch of modernity with her lilac gown and straw boater. How she had bloomed in the last few months. The girl had become a woman. She had always been a delight to look at, intelligent with it, but now there was a new maturity in her demeanour, a confidence that showed in her upturned chin and level, challenging gaze. Above all, there was a passion about her. It sparkled in her eyes and quivered on her lips; and there was also an impatience, a pent-up anticipation, which revealed itself in the briskness of her movements and the nervous turn of her head. Of course, she was anxious to be married. What else? Herr Fischer was a bachelor, but he could tell when love was burning in a woman’s face. Oh, yes, Mr Cabot was a lucky man, a lucky man indeed. And now, like a goddess at the May Day festival, she had come to grace his ceremony. He felt honoured, truly honoured, in the friendship shown him by his fellow foreign residents of Shishan.

  Only Mr Manners had let him down. Well, it was not for the first time. ‘Mr Manners,’ he said, ‘if you please, a moment’s consultation. Can you kindly tell me which is the adjective which is most proper to use before “High Excellency”? Is it “gracious”? Or “esteemed”? Or “magnificent”?’

  ‘Why don’t you try “worshipful”?’ drawled Manners. ‘Or “ineffable”? You can say what you like, old boy. It won’t make a twopennyworth of difference to what Charlie translates.’

  ‘Mr Manners, I owe it to the railway company to be correct in both my English and my Chinese. It is an honour that this magistrate should open our railway line for us, and we must give him all the respects that are due.’

  ‘Only time I ever addressed a magistrate,’ said Frank Delamere, ‘was to say, “Sorry, your Honour, wasn’t me,” but he still fined me ten shillings and held me over for a session.’

  ‘Hush, Papa,’ said Helen Frances.

  Disconsolately Herr Fischer marked his notes with a pencil, which he pulled from his top pocket. Then he checked his watch again. Eleven twenty-five and the Mandarin had still not arrived.

  ‘I have been admiring your arrangements. You really are to be congratulated, Herr Fischer,’ said the doctor, who had noted his nervousness. ‘What a triumph. You must be very proud today.’

  ‘You can congratulate me when the ceremony is over,’ said the German. ‘I am worried now that there are too many people appearing.’

  ‘The more to give you tribute, old boy,’ said Delamere. ‘I say.’ His features wrinkled with a sudden thought. ‘Hope there are none of those Boxer types in the crowd. Aren’t railways one of the things they’re supposed to be upset about? Ghosts and spirits zinging down the tracks, belching monsters, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Delamere, this is hardly the time—’ The doctor tried to interrupt him.

  ‘Don’t worry, Airton, nothing to be scared about,’ Delamere continued, oblivious. ‘Peasant superstition’s always the same. We had some trouble in Assam once. Couple of riots when someone put an electric generator down the local tin mine. The coons thought we’d woken the devil or some ancient god—but we ruled there, you see, so it didn’t matter. Nothing that a few Gurkha bullets couldn’t cure, eh? Shoot the ringleader, you know the drill.’

  ‘We don’t rule here,’ said Manners, in the silence that followed.

  ‘The Mandarin does. He’s a reliable sort of cove, isn’t he? And there’s Major Lin and his Celestial guardsmen.’

  ‘If it comes to that, can you be so certain which way Major Lin will shoot?’ asked Manners.

  Herr Fischer, who had been listening in growing anguish, could contain himself no longer. ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ he cried. ‘What is this talk of shooting? This is a joyous occasion. A day of progress. Of … of history.’ He was waving the notes of his speech. ‘Look, I say so in my prepared words. We are banishing superstition. We are destroying feudalism, and expelling the tyranny of poverty and want. With steam engines we are harnessing the power of the many for the progress of mankind. Here. I say so. Here. We are waking China from its sleep of ages, and stirring new forces of which Shishan was not even aware…’

  ‘I think it’s those new forces that Mr Delamere is afraid of.’ Manners laughed sardonically. ‘Boxers.’

  ‘No, no, no!’ Herr Fischer was red-faced and furious. ‘I mean modern, rational forces, economic forces, not—not Boxers!’

  ‘I suspect, old man, we’ll have to deal with the one before you’ll get to see the other. Don’t underestimate your achievement, Herr Direktor. It’s big ju-ju you’re bringing up the line today. The bongos are beating. Witch doctors are angry. Natives are res
tless.’

  Herr Fischer was trembling with anger. He pulled himself to his full height. ‘Mr Manners, I will ask you to remember that you are an official of the Peking–Mukden Railway Company and I—I am your superior officer. Yes, sir, I am. And an engineer, sir. And I have not spent the last year making—ju-ju.’

  Manners smiled in the face of his flustered colleague, who turned away angrily, making a pretence of tidying his papers on the speaker’s rostrum.

  Dr Airton, ever the peacemaker, tried to intervene. ‘Mr Manners,’ he said quietly, ‘it’s not wise to talk of Boxers when impressionable children are present.’ He nodded towards a wide-eyed Jenny and George. ‘And I do think you should be sensitive of Herr Fischer’s feelings, especially today.’

  ‘Yes, steady on, old boy,’ muttered Delamere, who was perhaps beginning to feel guilty about the conversation that he had started. ‘Maybe an apology’s in order, eh? Clear the air, what?’

  ‘Father!’ hissed Helen Frances, but it was too late.

  Manners was smiling dangerously. ‘An apology, Mr Delamere? Very well. Can’t allow the little Teuton to be upset on his big day now, can we?’ And he rose from his chair.

  The doctor stood up as if to stop him. ‘Mr Manners, I beg you to be discreet.’

  And Fischer, who had been listening to every word, turned with his eyes blazing.

  ‘Herr Manners, I am warning you. If you say once more a disrespectful word, I am ordering you off my platform!’ And he raised his fists.

  At that moment, pouring into the railway yard like a colourful cocktail, the Mandarin’s procession arrived, banners waving, drums beating, horns blowing. Herr Fischer turned and saw the Mandarin’s palanquin lowered beside the platform. Major Lin’s guards pressed back a laughing sea of curious faces. Out of the hubbub stepped the Mandarin and, without a pause in his stride, he bounded up the steps to where the westerners were waiting. A wide grin lit his face.