The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  So there it is, James. The prodigal returned. Father and son went off together to their room, and we have left the family since to their reunion. No doubt in the morning we will discover more. We are nigh speechless with amazement, and none of us can guess at the meaning of this extraordinary reappearance of one whom we all believed dead. For now there is a bubbling sense of joy in my heart, which is why I am sitting up into the night and writing to you at length. The Lord knows, we need something to cheer our present dire existence, and what could be more joyful than this mysterious resurrection? Truly I wish that we did have a fatted calf to kill. It is a long time since we were able to ‘eat, and be merry’.

  I have one nagging doubt, however. Three men were executed for that boy’s murder. The Mandarin authorised it and presided over it. Was it an error? Was it itself a judicial murder? Who, really, is this man on whom our lives depend?

  Sunday 30 June 1900

  Our joy in Hiram’s return is rather muted by the news he has brought. It appears that our circumstances are even more dire than we imagined. Ours is not an isolated case. The whole of north China is aflame with rebellion. What is worse, the Imperial Court has publicly espoused the Boxer cause. There is no doubt of that. Hiram showed us a copy of a memorial, which he had torn down from a wall. There, in black and white print under an Imperial seal, is the instruction for loyal subjects to go out and slaughter all foreigners.

  The rumours spreading through the town are alarming. Boxer and Imperial armies—there seems little distinction between them—have launched great attacks against the foreigners in Tientsin and Peking. The diplomatic missions are under siege. Some say that they have already fallen and that the British Minister’s head has been sent to the Empress Dowager on a platter. The foreign community in Tientsin continues to hold out, but a relieving army from Taku has been defeated, and several of our naval ships have been sunk under the guns of the Taku forts. Trophies, and even body parts taken from the foreign slain, are passing from town to town. Hiram, attending a Boxer celebration in the market square, saw held up for public view a bloodstained scarlet tunic, a necklace of ears, and other unmentionable parts of the human anatomy.

  From what we could gather from the boy, the situation in Shishan is precarious. The Mandarin apparently runs only a paper court in the yamen. The real power in the city belongs to Iron Man Wang. Do you remember me telling you about this semimythical bandit king who held sway in the forests of the Black Hills? Well, he is no myth. He is a bloodthirsty monster of a man who has taken control not only of the Boxers but also of all the criminal syndicates in the town, and he metes out life and death from his headquarters in a dumpling shop off the public square. He keeps the Mandarin in position only to provide himself with a legal sanction for his murders. Each ransacking of a merchant’s house is done under a warrant from the yamen. Nobody is safe from his depredations, since it is easy to taint anybody with the stigma of being a ‘Christian sympathiser’. I fear very much for our good friends, Mr Lu and Mr Jin.

  The fact that the Mandarin endorses these crimes—even under duress—appals me, but in doing so he apparently retains some freedom of action. Major Lin’s militia still take their orders from him, even though Iron Man Wang’s henchmen have replaced many of his palace retainers, and bandits now have the run of the yamen. Perhaps we should be grateful that the civil administration continues to exist. It seems that the Mandarin retains some bargaining power, and can ameliorate some of the worst excesses. The Mandarin represents Imperial authority after all, and I presume that Iron Man Wang, for all his local power, recognises that ultimately he must retain the good graces of the Court, in whose name it is now apparent that all these atrocious deeds are being performed. This is small comfort to us, because it begs the question, if the Mandarin is committed to obeying the orders from Peking, and Peking demands the destruction of foreigners, how long can he continue to protect us?

  Hiram is convinced, from what he has seen and heard, that there is actually no desire to protect us. Our predicament is well known and much talked about in the town. The current rumours, and the popular belief, are that we are being preserved for a show trial after which we will be executed, every one of us. Apparently a date has already been decided and a memorial is being prepared.

  I confess that, for the first time, I am beginning to accept that my confidence in the Mandarin has been misplaced. I do not need a gloating Burton Fielding to tell me that I have probably been mistaken all along in putting my trust in such weak clay. I will pass over my feelings in that respect because they are too turbulent. It is a black, black day, brother, and we will require all our fortitude if we are to survive a future that has suddenly become so uncertain.

  Monday 1 July 1900

  The boy Hiram is remarkable.

  He sat modestly on my sofa after luncheon, fully recovered after a long night’s sleep. Septimus was beside him, nodding sagely or beaming indulgently, like an impresario showing off his prodigy. The more horrific the experience his son described the more complacent the father appeared to be. I suppose that strange, literal man is taking the parable to heart. What matter the sin of the prodigal if he has repented and his father has granted forgiveness? What import the suffering so long as the sheep has returned to the fold? There is no denying Septimus’s happiness at his boy’s return, but his equanimity appeared inhuman to some of us—because what Hiram had to tell us would have wrung tears from a stone; certainly it took all my self-control to keep my composure—and Nellie left the room. Hiram spoke quietly and matter-of-factly about experiences that would have broken the spirit of stronger men but that he, despite his youth, has come to terms with, and put behind him.

  Do you realise, James, that while we were continuing our comfortable and smug existence in Shishan, that boy, in the centre of the city in which we lived, was suffering the tortures of the damned? He was lured by ruffians into a house of shame, and imprisoned in an upstairs room. There, day by day, and month by month, he was subjected to such unspeakable indignities and cruelties that I hope you cannot imagine them. He lifted his shirt and showed us the marks of cigarette burns on his back as well as the scars left by what I gather was a routine beating with rods. Who knows the marks of Sodom that scar his poor soul? For he was made the plaything of brutes. I gather that for most of the period he was chained to a bed. Oh, it is loathsome even to contemplate.

  Yet he does not dwell on the cruelties. He speaks of the kindnesses he encountered in that hell. There was a girl—a prostitute—who looked after him as best she could, tending his wounds and passing on to him by her example the courage and the will to endure. It was this Magdalene who persuaded Henry Manners—yes, that rascal who ruined poor Helen Frances—to rescue him. It is strange to listen to Manners being spoken of in terms of praise and hero-worship, but the boy considers him his saviour, and will hear no ill word spoken against him. Neither will he accept that Manners is dead, although he apparently witnessed his beating by Lin. It was in fact to discover the whereabouts of Manners that he donned the disguise of the Boxers and returned to the heart of danger in Shishan.

  I am speechless with amazement when I consider the bravery of this poor, persecuted creature who, rescued from perils, returned willingly to face even greater perils for the sake of his friend. He lived among the Boxers, ate with them, took part in their rituals. He frequented the teahouse in which Iron Man Wang holds court, and even spoke to his chief persecutor in the brothel, a man called Ren Ren, who is now high in the Boxer Council. How he managed to remain undiscovered I do not know. He merely shrugged when I asked him and told me that during his incarceration he had learned how to act a part. Apparently he was able to conceal his western features by wrapping his turban round his face like a Tuareg and he tried only to go out among the Boxers after dark, staying in the shadows cast by the torchlight. That he got away with such a slight disguise is remarkable. His boldness was breathtaking, but when questioned he is shy and self-deprecating. Such courage in a boy of
fifteen! He says that his daring paid off. He heard stories of a prisoner being held in the dungeons of the yamen, a foreign devil who had committed crimes so terrible that he was being kept for special punishment in a remote, solitary cell. There was a great mystery surrounding this prisoner: it was rumoured that the Mandarin himself was conducting the interrogation, presiding personally over the torture. The gossip was that the secrets this man held affected the safety of the empire. Hiram decided that he must penetrate the yamen to investigate the rumour, and did so, taking advantage of a demonstration by a troop of Boxers who had gone there to pledge their loyalty to the Ch’ing.

  Somehow he found his way into the dungeons, even to the locked door of this secret cell. Through the bars he saw a figure suspended in a hanging cage. It was naked, and the arm hanging out of the cage was bloody and bruised, but on one of the fingers was a thin band of gold not unlike the signet ring Manners used to wear. Hiram called to him by name, and there was a response. The hanging hand made urgent gestures, as if signalling Hiram to go away. The prisoner spoke, in hoarse, broken Chinese. It was difficult to make out the hissing words but Hiram thought he heard: ‘Go. Go. Go to the doctor. It’s not what it seems. I’ll come presently. Go.’ At that moment Hiram was startled by the footsteps of approaching guards and he hurried away—but he had convinced himself that he had found Manners, and Manners was giving him instructions to wait for him at the mission. In his own mind, his task was accomplished.

  Yet he did not immediately come to the mission. He still owed a debt of loyalty, he believed, to his friend, the courtesan, whom Manners had also helped to escape from the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure. She had been captured by Lin’s troop at the railway camp and presumably taken back to the brothel where before she had been kept as Lin’s own paramour. Hiram feared very much for her because he believed that she would be punished for her desertion. And here is the most astounding thing. He made his way deliberately into the very establishment where he had been held in bondage for so long. The consequences of recognition would have been unthinkable, yet he found the courage to return there, and this for the sake of a friend. He took a terrible risk but he found the girl. She had been savagely beaten by Major Lin, but Hiram thought that this was a lighter treatment than she might have suffered from the brothel-owner, this man Ren Ren who is known to have tortured girls to the point of death. Such horrors and this boy speaks about them so casually! The girl had persuaded him that she was safe under the continued protection of Major Lin, who, after her chastisement, had apparently restored her to her former position as his mistress. Hiram passed on to her a revolver, however, which Manners had given him and which he had secreted under the folds of his clothing all this time. I am afraid to say that at this point in Hiram’s narration Burton Fielding stormed out of the room in disgust. ‘The use we could have made of a revolver!’ he snarled. ‘And this boy gives it to a whore!’ We were all rather embarrassed, but Hiram continued his tale as if nothing had happened. There was little more to tell. Shortly after this he had left Shishan and made his way through the countryside to our mission. Even so, he had to wait two days among the besieging Boxers before he judged that it was safe enough to approach our house.

  What a story, James! I have rarely heard such a tale of hardship, cruelty and courage. Of course, we had not the heart to express to Hiram our doubt that the prisoner whom he had seen was really Manners. His meeting was inconclusive to say the least and the so-called message smacked more to me of the delirious uttering one might expect from a poor soul suffering the pain of prolonged torture. And why, if it was Manners, did he speak in Chinese? Yet there is no harm in allowing the boy to believe in Manners’s survival if it gives him comfort—as long as Helen Frances does not come to believe in it; that might reopen wounds better left closed.

  Oh, James, what terrible times we are living through, and how dark all of a sudden the future seems. The saddest thing for me is that the one man in whom I put my trust seems to have betrayed us utterly. The Mandarin may have protected us up to now, but it seems that it is only to keep us for a worse fate to come.

  That I should have been so intimate with him, counting him among my friends, and yet all along to be deceived about his real nature! I condoned evil and called it pragmatism. I mistook venality for compromise, and opportunism for wisdom. I realise now that I was winking at murder—worse than murder, for it was committed under the veil of the law.

  Hiram’s story alone convinces me how utterly mistaken I have been. For whatever reason (money? blackmail?), it is now certain that the Mandarin connived with criminals, and executed innocent people in order that the terrible crimes being done to Hiram would not be found out. Who, except mad Millward, would continue to believe in the boy’s continued existence after a yamen trial had condemned his murderers? Yet again Septimus has been proved right when wiser heads have been befuddled.

  There is a lesson here, James, a lesson. Septimus reposed his trust in the Lord, and he believed what his heart, or his Voices told him, when everyone else, including myself, was blinded by what they thought was their reason. Whatever is to come—and, frankly, with Tientsin and Peking under siege, and even the Imperial Court against us, what hope remains for us?—we would be better to take a leaf out of Millward’s book and trust to that Higher Power, giving ourselves humbly into His Hands, counting not the little tribulations of this world, but seeking to prepare our souls for that Homecoming which the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ has promised us.

  Again, my admiration goes out to that young boy, for perhaps the bravest act in a catalogue of bravery was his decision ultimately to come and join us, even though he knew that we are doomed by imperial decree, and that if he came here he, too, would share in our fate. He may talk of Manners, but fundamentally I believe he wishes to be with his family, and to be reunited in their love before the end comes. I know the comfort that I myself feel in having Nellie and the children close to me. If there was any hope of saving them I would lay down my life to preserve them—but having no hope of that now, just knowing that we will live and die together is mercy enough. In fact it is more than mercy. It is a sort of joy. For what can prevail against love?

  It is late. I must sleep. We must be strong to face tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and however many remain for us.

  Have sympathy for us. The drums outside have begun to beat again.

  And more days had passed, and she had decided to get up. She saw Tom in the pantry, and she smiled at him, but he only muttered and moved away. Nellie and the doctor were kind to her, and Herr Fischer held both her hands and told her how pleased he was that she had recovered from her illness. But everyone in the house had been distracted—she gathered that they had had news that their execution was now certain. She spent some time knitting with Jenny: the little girl seemed to take some comfort from her company, and when she was with Jenny she did not have to think. She was sad, however, that such a sweet little girl would have to die soon.

  For herself she was relieved. There were no more choices now. It was as if her wretched life had been given a reprieve. She longed for the nothingness, the extinction.

  Thursday 4 July 1900

  Well, now I know what it must feel like to live in a condemned man’s cell and, this may surprise you, it is not as intolerable as one might expect. Strangely, the thought of imminent dissolution hardly bears down on the spirit at all. For Christians such as we, what is death anyway but a release from care and the crossing over of a bourn to a happier world? What is tiresome is the waiting. We would be much happier if we knew with more certainty when it is to be.

  It may surprise you, but during the last few days we have returned to some degree of cheerfulness in our little household. We hardly pay attention any more to the howling and screaming and the drums outside. I had thought that Hiram’s ominous news would have unmanned us all, but it is rather the contrary. Now we know that the worst is likely to happen we have ceased worrying about it.

  Ea
ch of us seems to be adapting in our own ways. The Millward family act as if they are on holiday, so delighted are they with Hiram’s return. Nellie told me the other day that she actually heard Septimus telling a joke. It was not a particularly funny joke so I won’t repeat it, but his behaviour of late has been what I can only describe as waggish, if you can imagine a stern Old Testament prophet being such a thing. He is even taking part in some of the children’s games. George has set up his clockwork railway set in the playroom and Septimus is, would you believe it?, the solemn stationmaster, with a scarf around his neck and Bowers’s cap on his head. From time to time he blows a whistle. It is very droll.

  Bowers and Fischer have become the firmest of friends. They have established a routine of Bible-reading in the morning and chess in the afternoon. To our delight Fischer has taken to playing his fiddle again in the evenings, and he and Nellie now regularly perform a little concert for us. It is difficult to hear against the noise of the Boxers outside, but we strain to listen.

  Sister Caterina has taken the contemplative route, praying for many hours of the day in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary in her room. She tells me that she feels very close to poor Sister Elena for whom we must presume the worst, and is happy because she knows that the two of them will soon be reunited.

  Tom and Helen Frances? I feel very sad for them. They have not been able to resolve their differences. I suppose that it does not matter so much now, but I would have liked it if they had come together again. As you know, I am a hopeless sentimentalist. Nevertheless, there appears to be no rancour between them. Helen Frances is up and about and, if not fully restored to her old self, at least her health is restored, as is much of her former beauty, though she looks older and somewhat sadder. She and Jenny have become inseparable, sewing together and chatting about I know not what. Poor Jenny, I see that she would have grown up to be a lovely lass if she had had the chance. Tom has taken one of the children’s jigsaw puzzles and seems happy enough just being by himself. He, too, looks older and sadder but occasionally, when he is concentrating, he unconsciously whistles a merry tune; I may be an incompetent physician, but I am satisfied that if a man can whistle, there is little really to worry about him, body or soul!