The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure

by Adam Williams

  Sixteen

  The Imperial troops are brutal. They do not understand the deep magic. Master Zhang says be patient. Victory will come.

  Major Lin’s troops arrived at the mission shortly after ten. This time he did not bring melons.

  Herr Fischer opened the door. He was in his nightshirt and was holding a teapot.

  ‘It’s time,’ said Lin shortly.

  Herr Fischer blinked when he saw the grim-faced soldiers standing menacingly behind their officer, and the two covered travelling carts waiting by the gate. He understood. ‘Ja. I will inform the others,’ he said.

  Troopers with fixed bayonets followed him into the hall.

  It was all quite orderly. The Millwards were ready first. The children followed Laetitia in file like a school of crocodile towards the gate. Septimus strode solemnly behind, a prayer book clutched to his chest. His other hand kept a firm grasp on Burton Fielding’s elbow, steering the cowed minister forward. After a half-hour in a cupboard and the rest of the night in enforced prayer with Septimus, the superintendent of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in China had become a much humbler man, if slightly dazed by the experience. Caterina came out next, wearing her Ursuline robe and wimple and holding a rosary. Frederick Bowers had put on full railwayman’s uniform. He and a frockcoated Fischer helped Tom down the steps.

  They were thankful for the protection of the covered carts as they ran the gauntlet through the Boxer lines. There were the expected jeers and shouts, and some missiles were thrown at them. Sister Caterina was sitting closest to the tailboard of her cart, and could see the grimacing, angry, hate-filled faces, jostling for a view of their condemned enemies. She noticed one man because, unlike the others, he was smiling. With a start she recognised Zhang Erhao, who had once shared the daily chores of the hospital with her as Dr Airton’s major-domo. Their eyes met and he spat, a yellow gobbet of phlegm, which stuck to her robe. The cart jolted on.

  It was a relief to reach the open countryside.

  It was a glorious day. Great clouds rolled in a deep blue sky. The leaves on the elms were rustling in a slight breeze. Magpies and choughs flew among the branches. In another circumstance, on just such a day, they might have been going on an outing, in just such a cart, with Jenny and George. Sister Caterina suddenly thought of Elena, and began to weep.

  ‘Come on, old girl.’ She felt a large hand on her shoulder and saw Tom’s red, smiling face beside her. ‘Here, give me your hand.’

  Faintly, from the cart in front of them, where the Millwards were, they could hear the sound of a hymn. They could make out some of the words. Septimus’s strong voice carried over the clatter of the wheels, the shrill voices of his children accompanying him.

  ‘We shall reach the summer land,

  Some sweet day, by and by;

  We shall press the golden strand,

  Some sweet day, by and by…’

  ‘Look, I don’t know that one,’ said Tom, ‘but we can do better than the Yanks, can’t we? Come on, Bowers. let’s give them an English hymn. Come on, Caterina, you’ve got a lovely voice. Drown me out because I sound like a foghorn … All right, I’ll start.’ And taking a deep breath he began to sing:

  ‘There is a green hill far away

  Without a city wall …

  Come on, chaps. Join in.’

  Bowers chuckled. ‘Did you say foghorn, Mr Cabot? Sounds more like a croaking frog to me. Let’s show you how we sing in the Dales. With a pint or two inside us, perhaps. It’s a beautiful morning and there’ll be time enough for religion before the long day’s done. Now, this is an old song my mother taught me. You foreigners may find the words a little strange at first, but just follow along,’ and clearing his voice he began to sing ‘On Ilkley Moor Bar t’ At’.

  Tom joined in enthusiastically:

  ‘Where hast thou been since I saw thee, I saw thee

  On Ilkley Moor bar t’at…’

  Herr Fischer found he could not help laughing. ‘You English. Oh, you English,’ he said. ‘You never behave appropriately,’ but he began to follow:

  ‘I’ve been a courting Mary Jane,

  I’ve been a courting Mary Jane…’

  His harsh, guttural bass hardly added to the harmony, but he had a smile on his face as he sang.

  ‘That’s good, Mr Fischer. That’s good. We’ll make an Englishman of you yet,’ said Bowers. ‘Now, Sister, will you join us for the third verse?’

  ‘Then thou will catch thy death of cold, death of cold

  On Ilkley Moor bar t’at…’

  Weakly, at first, she too joined in, but her voice strengthened and soon they were all bellowing out the nonsensical refrains, and laughing between the verses. And after ‘Ilkley Moor,’ Bowers led them through ‘Do Ye Ken John Peel?’ Then Tom sang the ‘Eton Boating Song,’ and Herr Fischer remembered a drinking song from his days at Heidelberg, and Sister Caterina sang ‘Funiculi Funicula.’ And then, by common volition, they began all over again with a resounding repetition of ‘Ilkley Moor.’

  Major Lin rode behind them on his grey mare, a stern expression on his face. He wondered whether these prisoners really knew the fate so imminently in store for them. That they could roister in such a way! Had they no fear? A Chinese would have comported himself to his death with dignity. Yes, even scum like Iron Man Wang and his bandits, or the scabbiest peasant. How he loathed these foreigners. Even now they appeared to be mocking him. He hated them almost as much as he hated the Boxers. Undisciplined rabble. He longed for an ordered society, a restoration of the old virtues, a respect for the majesty and terror of the law. Well, he would impose order with the Mandarin’s guns. But these foreigners—why did they not show fear?

  The little convoy moved on through the lanes, and the singing rose from the carts of the condemned to the blue dome of sky above; from one cart came ‘Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven,’ from the other ‘Ilkley Moor Bar t’ At.’

  * * *

  When they were in sight of the city walls, Major Lin stopped the convoy. They would walk the last quarter-mile to the city square.

  They were stripped of their fine clothes. Chinese criminals walked bare-chested to their execution. Even the women were stripped to their skirts, although they were allowed to hold up the fronts of their dresses in some preservation of modesty. It did not seem the time to worry about such things, and neither Caterina nor Laetitia showed any objection. It was somehow beneath their dignity to do so. There were too many of them for them all to be given cangues, so only four, Septimus Millward, Herr Fischer, Burton Fielding and Frederick Bowers were loaded with the heavy wooden collars. Tom was spared this because of his disability. A stretcher had been prepared for him, but he indicated angrily that he would walk on crutches, and Major Lin let him have his way. Nor did Lin insist that they be shackled. It would merely have burdened the march. The irons were thrown back into one of the carts.

  Yamen officials were waiting for them. Chamberlain Jin was in his palanquin. He had the responsibility of leading them to the square. Bannermen stood with their pennants flapping. Others held long sticks, their task if necessary to beat their way through the crowds. A drummer had a big tom-tom tied to his chest, and two musicians were adjusting their long horns; their role was to walk near the front of the procession to give warning to passersby to stand aside.

  There was the usual Chinese chaos as everyone found their places in the line of march. Major Lin sat on his horse irritated by the delays. Finally Chamberlain Jin waved an elegant hand out of his palanquin, and Major Lin barked the order to begin.

  The heavy drum began to thump. The horns began to blare.

  At a desperately slow pace—that of the children and Tom on his crutches—the procession began to move.

  The gate tower loomed above them. Soldiers and ruffians were leaning over the crenellations to catch a glimpse of them. Then they were swallowed by the dark cavern of its inside, the spikes of the portcullis hanging threateningly over thei
r heads as they passed within. And out the other side, where a blaze of sunlight hit their eyes, blinding them for a moment before they noticed the thick crowds lining the road. Even the balconies of the houses were filled with people. So many of Shishan’s citizens had come out to watch the foreigners die. But this was not the usual Chinese crowd. It was silent. It was as if they could not believe what they were seeing. Burton Fielding stumbled under the weight of his cangue, his head bowed to the road in front of him. The others somehow carried themselves upright. Septimus Millward strode proudly in front, eyes looking neither left nor right, although occasionally he cast a fond glance at Hiram, who was walking by his side. The women had forgotten their modesty and were holding hands with the smaller children, one on either side. Tom strained on his crutches at the rear, Frederick Bowers held a steadying hand on his shoulder. The black-bearded railwayman gazed at the crowd on either side with equanimity.

  ‘Colourful-looking lot, aren’t they, Mr Cabot?’ he said. ‘Sad to be born a heathen, don’t you think? You know, I never had much time for China’s famous five thousand years of civilisation. Hasn’t seemed to have brought them very far, to my way of thinking.’

  ‘They’re certainly not behaving in a very civilised way today,’ Tom muttered, between panting breaths. ‘You know, I think it’s time for another song.’

  ‘“Ilkley Moor” wouldn’t be very appropriate now, sir.’

  ‘No, something more rousing,’ said Tom. ‘Something to show them what we’re made of.’ He gathered his breath, and called over the procession to Septimus, ‘Millward! Do you know “Onward Christian Soldiers”?’

  ‘I certainly do,’ called back Septimus. He lifted his lion-maned head and began to sing. His family, dutifully trained, joined in, and so, one by one, did the others. Even Fielding mouthed the words. The Christian clarion call to arms evoked by the thin voices rose above the drums and the horns, and there was a murmur in the crowd. Major Lin turned sideways on his horse, looked behind him and frowned, but he could do nothing about it. The chamberlain leaned his head out of his carriage. His long-nailed fingers hanging on the side of the palanquin began unconsciously to tap the rhythm of the tune. He smiled, thinking of the spectacle to come. A voice in the crowd shouted out, ‘Exterminate the foreigners! Save the Ch’ing!’ but it was only one voice. The bulk of the crowd remained silent, watching, wondering.

  The small band of pilgrims marched singing to their martyrdom.

  * * *

  They had slept late into the morning. The children were still sleeping when Nellie and Airton rose. He looked at his watch. It was well after noon.

  ‘Let them sleep on, Edward, they’re exhausted, poor little things,’ said Nellie.

  They did their toilet. There was a wooden pail full of water and a ladle in one corner of the room, next to an ample chamber pot. When they were dressed, they sat on the bed. There seemed little else to do. ‘I’m a mite hungry,’ said Nellie. ‘Do you think we could ask that awful woman to make us some food?’ but there was no need, for outside the door in the otherwise empty corridor the doctor found a tray on a stool. There was a pot of tea in a warmer, cups and little wooden receptacles containing cold sweetmeats and some mantou. ‘Room service?’ said Nellie.

  ‘Aye,’ said the doctor glumly, and poured some tea.

  ‘No sign of the lovers?’ asked Nellie.

  ‘No,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Well. I suppose all we can do is wait for something to happen, then,’ said Nellie. ‘Somebody must have something planned for us.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the doctor, his mind elsewhere.

  Someone knocked on the door. It was Henry. He had a grim expression on his face. ‘Doctor, I think you had better come and see this,’ he said. ‘But, Mrs Airton, you might like to stay in your room.’

  ‘Whatever it is,’ said Nellie, ‘I’m coming with my husband.’

  ‘So be it,’ said Henry. ‘But it won’t be pleasant.’

  They followed him into the gallery. They could hear the murmur ing, roaring sound of a crowd. Helen Frances was standing on a bench that allowed her a view out of the high window. Her face was ashen, and she wore the same grim expression as Henry.

  ‘I’ll help you up,’ she said to Nellie, reaching out a hand. The four stood on the bench and looked below. They could see the curling roofs of the temple directly opposite them, and the grey tiles of the city stretching to the distance in all directions. They also had a very good view of the square, which was filled with excited people. The centre of the square was empty, a bare ring of sand, in the middle of which stood a large man, stripped to the waist and leaning on a sword. He was exchanging pleasantries with the crowd. ‘Oh, my God,’ cried Airton. ‘It’s to be an execution. Oh, Manners, it’s not … it’s not … Is it?’ Henry did not reply. As they watched there was a movement in the crowd and they saw the Mandarin, accompanied by a bearlike man in shaggy furs, with whom he was conversing, laughing at something his companion was saying, and following them were a raggle-taggle parade of officials and others who looked like thugs. This official party made their way casually to chairs that had been arranged for them at one side of the square. ‘Iron Man Wang,’ said Henry, ‘and his ruffians. Well, I wouldn’t have expected anything else.’

  Nothing seemed to happen for a while. The Mandarin and his companions were smoking their long pipes. The hairy man next to him was drinking from a gourd. The crowd became restless. A group dressed in Boxer uniform took up the by now familiar chant, ‘Exterminate the foreigners! Save the Ch’ing,’ but like the sporadic bursts of song which erupt in a football crowd and die down again, the chant sputtered out. Egged on by the throng, the man with the sword began to twirl it round his head, performing some sort of martial-arts dance. There were cheers. Then he, too, stopped, and gradually the crowd became silent, waiting.

  As they also waited, frozen, on their bench in the gallery.

  Then they heard the slow beating of a drum, and braying horns. The crowd stirred, and craned their heads expectantly. Another sound rose faintly above the drums. Singing! ‘Oh, Edward,’ breathed Nellie, ‘it’s “Jerusalem, the Golden”. I can’t bear it.’

  They watched. A troop of bannermen marched into the square and took their places along the edges of the crowd. Major Lin followed them. He was dismounted now, and was walking beside the thin, white-haired figure of Chamberlain Jin, who bowed to the Mandarin, before taking a position, slightly in front of the others at the far end of the square. More bannermen entered. And then they saw Septimus Millward, his arm round his son’s shoulders. One by one, they recognised the others, Tom hobbling on his crutches at the rear. The hymn came to an end. Septimus, ignoring the crowd, stood tall in the sand, stretching out his arms—he could not raise them very high because of the cangue. Then he opened his prayer book. The others knelt in a ring around him and began to pray.

  The white-haired official had unrolled a scroll. He read the charges in a high, incantatory voice, ending with the resounding, ‘Tremble and obey.’ The Mandarin, who had put down his pipe, nodded, and after a moment, gestured with his hand. The big man with the sword bowed deeply. There was an intake of breath from the crowd.

  Two men, the executioners’ assistants, ran over the sand towards the condemned foreigners. Arbitrarily they selected Burton Fielding, who was nearest. He began to struggle and cry out as they unlocked his heavy cangue. The crowd murmured with satisfaction. Septimus Millward paused from reading his prayer book, and said something loudly to his whimpering compatriot. Whatever it was it seemed to have an effect, for Fielding suddenly relaxed, and he was unresisting as they dragged him to the centre of the square. Septimus went back to his reading. None of the others raised their heads to look, concentrating on their prayers—but the doctor and the others in the gallery saw. They were powerless to look away. Fielding was forced into a kneeling position, his hands were pulled behind his back, and with one blow his head was knocked off his body.

  Henry put an arm roun
d Helen Frances, who leaned on his chest, crying quietly. Dr Airton and Nellie stared stone-faced, petrified in their shock and disbelief.

  Herr Fischer was the next to be chosen. Unlike Fielding he did not struggle when they came to remove his cangue. He bowed curtly to Septimus, and then to Bowers, shrugged off the pulling hands of the executioners and walked stiffly of his own accord to where the man with the now bloodstained blade stood. He sank to his knees, crossed himself, then pushed his own hands abruptly behind his back. This time there was silence from the crowd when the neat grey-haired head rolled in the sand.

  Tom was ready when they came back for the next victim. In the interval of Fischer’s beheading he had taken the opportunity to shake hands with Bowers, and kissed Sister Caterina gently on the forehead. Before the two assistants even reached him he was pushing his own way with his crutches towards the executioner. There was a murmur from the crowd: it might have been admiration for his courage. There was a hush when he flamboyantly threw aside his crutches, and dropped to his knees. In the silence, even as far away as the gallery, they could hear him whistling.

  ‘“Jolly Boating Weather”,’ said Henry quietly. ‘Out of tune, but that’s Tom. Brave man. Brave man.’

  ‘Oh, Henry, I can’t look,’ said Helen Frances.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said.

  The sword blade fell.

  For variety, they chose a woman next. Sister Caterina seemed nervous, glancing from side to side at the crowd, covering her breasts with her hands—but she walked steadily enough. She appeared confused when she reached the executioner, staring with fascination at the stained blade and the pools of blood in the sand. The executioner was gentle with her and told her to kneel. She did so, crossing herself. One assistant pulled back her arms, the other pulled her hair forward, leaving her neck clear—but the blade was getting blunt now and it took two strokes to cut off her head.