Also dressed in the workmen’s clothing that had disguised them during their journey to Soochow, Aisek was dubious about their foray into the South City, which was held by the rebels called the Small Swords. He had been disconsolate since his mother’s death, though he could not retire into mourning as Mandarins were required to withdraw from office for three years after a parent’s demise. A white scarf was knotted around his neck to declare his bereavement, and he brooded somberly. Though he was not guilty of his mother’s suicide, he reproached himself nonetheless. Chinese sons were absolutely responsible for their parents’ welfare, and he had failed his widowed mother.
Aisek was further depressed because the coup that should have brought the partners 30,000 silver taels, the equivalent of £10,000 sterling or $50,000 American, had yielded less than a third that amount. Most of their silk was still held in the new inland Imperial Customs House. Generous bribes had, quite extraordinarily, failed to free the goods. Oppressed by guilt and anger, Aisek ascribed their ill fortune to divine retribution—and to powerful enemies.
Saul feigned enthusiasm for the showcase of fans as he shooed away the horseflies, whose iridescent wings were as brilliant as those small works of great art. The swarm followed an itinerant foodseller whose carrying pole supported two boxes holding a charcoal stove, a greasy wok, and uncooked dumplings. The master fan maker shouted abuse at the cook, the sweat stains on his gray cotton gown outlining his armpits and his bulging belly.
“Take your damned slops and your flies elsewhere!” he screamed. One hand gesticulated obscenely. The other whisked a chicken-feather duster over his showcases to prevent the horseflies’ spotting his stock: the silk disks painted with pastel landscapes, the gentlemen’s black fans folding on ribs inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and the gauzy ladies’ fans stretched on golden filigree ribs.
“Dsou-ba …” Aisek urged loudly. “Let’s move on, brother.”
Saul complied reluctantly. His interest had been captured by the exquisite masterpieces, which would command high prices in European markets fascinated by chinoiserie. He understood Aisek’s anxiety. It would be disastrous if they were unmasked. Fortunately, his unguarded exclamation in Hebrew had apparently passed unheard amid the tumult of hawkers’ cries and bargaining.
The smells were as overpowering as the noise. The stench of night soil lingering on the heavy air mingled with the tang of vinegar and cooking oil, the sweet pungence of ginger and anise, and the musky sweat of the exuberant throng.
Saul followed Aisek into a small square through a lane reverberating with tinkling silversmiths’ hammers. In the murky water of an artificial pond, orange carp drifted languidly under the zigzag bridge leading to a scarlet teahouse. Mahjong tiles clacked through its open windows, and a falsetto aria accompanied by a two-string violin shrilled beneath its peaked cupolas.
A dragon’s head peered over a granite wall, white teeth gleaming and obsidian eyes glittering. The great beast’s jagged horns twitched menacingly in the heat rays, and its long body undulated. A wooden gate beneath the stone dragon was guarded by sentries in yellow tunics. Instead of Manchu queues, lank hair hung beneath their red turbans, and short swords were thrust into their red sashes.
Saul followed Aisek through the gate, unhappy at the prospect of calling on the leaders of the Small Swords. But the clandestine visit could benefit the partnership into which Aisek and he had entered two days earlier under British law, which governed British subjects in the foreign enclaves on the China coast. Their association was also recognized by the Great Pure Dynasty, which, presumably, ruled the rest of the country.
Aisek’s spirits had lifted only briefly when Saul stressed: “You won’t be just a compradore, working for a foreign principal, dealing with the Chinese for a percentage. You’ll be a full partner, sharing both profits and losses.”
“The losses are coming faster now—and all my fault,” Aisek had replied wryly.
Instead of celebrating their partnership with the traditional banquet, the normally law-abiding merchants were entering the rebels’ headquarters in the Yü Yüan, the Garden of Ease, built by a Mandarin of the Ming Dynasty centuries earlier.
Some two thousand members of the clandestine Small Sword Society were pledged: “Oppose the Alien Manchus and Restore the Chinese Ming Dynasty!” Since that slogan was proclaimed two centuries earlier, the numerous secret societies had altered greatly. Flourishing among the poor, who despaired of legal redress for their wrongs, the brotherhoods of the dispossessed had become extralegal governments, growing more powerful as the Ching Dynasty’s corruption festered. In the enlightened nineteenth century, their rites reached back to ancient superstition to bind members with blood oaths, and the leaders implacably murdered all defectors.
When the Small Swords seized the South City ten months earlier, in September 1853, the apprehensive foreign community had been hostile. But it had gradually become reconciled to its tumultuous neighbors, and both British sailors and American marines had fought beside the Small Swords at Muddy Flat three months earlier. Yet the consuls who governed the foreign community were still wary, since the secret society threatened the stability of commerce. The outlanders had not come to China to champion the oppressed. They had come to trade—and to profit.
The Small Swords were also loosely associated with the Taiping Tienkuo, the Kingdom of Heavenly Peace, which was a major military and political force. Because the secret society’s gory rites offended the Taipings’ puritanism, they did not formally accept its allegiance, but the Heavenly King neither objected to the Small Swords’ using his coinage nor repudiated their loyalty—and he rejoiced at their foothold in China’s chief port. The failed Mandarin from mountainous Kwangsi Province, who proclaimed himself the younger brother of Jesus Christ, had already conquered most of South China. Impoverished farmers had risen under his leadership to overthrow the Manchus—and to establish their own Chinese dynasty. Since they might succeed, a prudent foreign merchant was well advised to understand them—and to propitiate them.
Saul Haleevie was appalled by the Taiping doctrines, an unstable amalgam of traditional Chinese beliefs, primitive socialism, and Protestant Christianity. However, he approved of both their desire to expand trade and their puritanical rectitude, which was the antithesis of Manchu corruption. He reassured himself that the risk involved in meeting with the rebels was justified as the partners followed their guide along the paths winding among low pavilions.
Within its granite walls, the five-acre park was truly a Garden of Ease, every shrub, flower, and tree perfectly complementing the bright painted structures among man-made hillocks. Its serenity in the midst of the squalor of the South City further emphasized the abyss that separated the prodigal luxury of the nation’s rulers from the misery of their overtaxed subjects. A rapidly increasing population, hardly checked by recurrent natural disasters, was straining the resources of the Empire that had a century earlier been the wealthiest in the world. The fury of the common people was embodied in the red-turbaned insurgents who hurried through zigzag corridors under peaked roofs.
Their guide stopped before a pavilion with a sloping roof and led them up shallow steps flanked by stone lions with hyacinth-curl manes. They entered the Hall of Flaming Spring from a terrace whose crimson pillars and fretwork balustrades were weathered by Shanghai’s bitter winters and brutal summers.
“Kuei shang-jen …” The man behind a table strewn with documents, weapons, and food remnants spoke with a Cantonese accent. “The honorable merchants are welcome. You do me much honor by your presence.”
The narrow, flat-nosed face of the formidable Liu Li-chüan, the “Field Marshal” of the Small Swords, belied his reputed bloodthirstiness. His prominent eyes shone with intelligence, while his wispy beard was more appropriate to a diligent clerk than a ruthless general. Yet he had led the surprise attack that seized the heart of China’s chief port, and his manifesto championed the poor by reducing the extortionate price of rice. Profiteers would,
he proclaimed, be decapitated.
“Pi-jen pu …” Aisek replied with Confucian politesse. “We are unworthy to enter your glorious dwelling. We are vastly honored to confer with Your Excellency.”
“I am commanded by the Heavenly King to put certain questions to you and your barbarian associate—and to make certain proposals.” The young man seated beside the Field Marshal wore a merchant’s cotton gown, and a Manchu queue hung from his shaven crown. Aisek concluded from his brusque disregard for etiquette that he was one of many secret Taiping agents.
“I await your words,” Aisek replied as brusquely.
“You, I know, are not idolaters,” the young man continued. “You do not worship idols like the French Catholic barbarians. The outlander and I are, accordingly, brothers in Christ. The Heavenly King is therefore convinced we can strike an agreement beneficial to both sides.”
“My partner and I listen,” Aisek replied.
“First, there is the matter of your silk, which is held by the Customs of the diabolical Imps. You’ve bribed heavily, of course. Corruption prevails everywhere under the Manchu barbarians, though it is punishable by death in the Heavenly Kingdom. My Lord will restore your silk to demonstrate his benevolent intentions.”
“We should, of course, be delighted to secure our lawful goods,” Aisek answered without consulting Saul. “How can reparation be accomplished?”
“There’s only one way to deal with the Imps.” The envoy’s smooth face tightened in contempt for the woolly-minded merchant. “We’ll seize the silks and …”
After Aisek translated, Saul’s lips twitched in amusement as he observed: “It is tempting, but it would never work. How would we ship the silks? How explain their coming into our hands? Consul Alcock would never permit it. We can’t openly flout Imperial Customs regulations. But don’t reject his offer outright. Tell him—oh, you know better than I what to say, Aisek. And let him spell out his proposal.”
“We are deeply moved by the benevolence of the Heavenly King.” Aisek threw up a smokescreen of formality. “Profoundly conscious of the honor, we should like to consider the implications before troubling His Majesty. Certain questions arise. But enough of our petty problems. We should be thrice honored to hear the proposal of the Heavenly King.”
“I can’t understand why.” The envoy shook his shaven head in perplexity. “Such a simple matter. But that is, I suppose, the way of merchants. As to His Majesty’s proposals, I shall be brief.”
“My partner and I are attentive to your every word.”
“You know that the Heavenly King considers peaceful trade essential to the welfare of his tens of millions of subjects,” the envoy declaimed. “He further wishes to strengthen his ties of friendship with his brother in Christ, the merchant Ha-lee-vee, as well as his ties to all his coreligionists among the barbar—the noble sojourners from across the seas. Is it not good to exchange the goods the Lord God has given unto each of us in different wise so that all benefit and all are drawn together in brotherhood?”
When the envoy paused for translation, Aisek did not tell his Jewish partner that the heretical Chinese Protestant considered himself his brother in Christ. Searching their faces to assess the effects of his eloquence, the Taiping emissary saw only fixed smiles.
“You need goods, I believe,” he continued enthusiastically. “We possess much tea, as well as much silk. We also control the roads and rivers along which those goods must travel—even in the territories still not liberated from the Imps. We have porcelains as well, and certain spices I understand the bar—foreigners value highly. At just prices. The Heavenly King forbids all profit and all property to his subjects. But the price would be most attractive. You are interested?”
“In principle, of course. As merchants we will trade with all who desire our goods—and all who offer goods of value. What does His Majesty require of us?”
“It is not what the Heavenly King requires of you, but the opportunities he offers you.” The envoy leaned across the littered table to emphasize his master’s generosity. “I shall be very frank. We have approached you first because we feel a smaller firm like your honored house can provide a more intimate—a more confidential—relationship.”
Aisek’s murmured aside was superfluous, since there were few secrets in Shanghai—and no secrets long preserved. Saul too knew that the Heavenly King had already asked two major firms, Russells, the Americans, and Jardines, the British, to act for him. Both had reluctantly refused. The mercantile community endorsed that decision while regretting the lost profits. Most foreigners had not yet decided whether trade with the Taipings, who might some day rule all China, could compensate for the wrath of the Imperial Government, which still ruled most of China—and was moving ponderously to crush the rebellion.
Moreover, the consuls, the de facto governors of the Foreign Settlement, were determined to enforce the letter of their treaties with the legitimate Manchu government. While their foreign offices waited to see which regime would offer the greater advantage, it was expedient to uphold the status quo—and to punish those who aided the rebels. Although the consuls could not prevent adventurers’ dealing with the Taipings, that small trade was wholly inadequate to the insurgents’ needs.
“My master requires muskets and cannon as well as steamers and machinery to make munitions.” Portentously confidential, the envoy revealed to them what every street loafer in Shanghai already knew. “Beyond all doubt, we shall triumph. The Lord God, Father of the Heavenly King, has decreed our victory. But He leaves the manner of that victory to the genius of His Beloved Son. We must win quickly to spare the people further suffering. But we cannot win quickly while we oppose crude pikes, spears, and a few ancient guns to the modern weapons the Imps buy from the foreigners. We also require foreign experts to train our soldiers. Do you now see the benevolent intentions of the Heavenly King toward yourselves?”
“Our dull wits, regrettably, do not wholly comprehend your profound wisdom,” Aisek prevaricated. “Though we try your patience, please tell us precisely what arrangements the Heavenly King has in mind.”
“Nothing less than a monopoly on our trade for your esteemed house. You will be our confidential agents, supplying us with everything we need and taking as much of our produce as you wish. What do you say to that?”
Saul was greatly tempted. By a single word he could raise his infant business to the level of the major houses. His small firm was supple, and Her Britannic Majesty’s Consul did not watch it closely because he considered it insignificant. Saul was tempted—and Aisek was eager to reverse the decline of their fortunes. Yet prudence must temper boldness, they knew, or they could destroy themselves.
Accordingly, Aisek’s reply spun a web of words to veil its meaning. They could, unfortunately, not immediately agree, he said, though it would be egregious folly to reject the princely offer. Perhaps they could begin in a small way to test whether they could serve the Heavenly King worthily. Rash haste, he added, would be disrespectful to the Taiping monarch. Even more disrespectful would be their failing to apprise themselves of the full particulars of the relationship His Majesty envisaged.
The Taiping envoy was on familiar ground. Accustomed to negotiating while disclaiming negotiation, he genially spent an hour discussing specifics, but, of course, only hypothetically. Saul and Aisek finally took their leave after the long June twilight had given way to a moonlit evening.
Retracing the cramped alleys of the South City, which still resounded with restless life well after nightfall, Saul reflected that it had been a typical Chinese negotiation. They were, they knew, committed—if they wished to commit themselves. Yet either party could still withdraw without dishonoring itself or wounding the other’s self-esteem. Thrusts and parries that appeared no more than mock fencing had actually cut to the heart of the matter. He gloated over the possible profits, but knew he would have felt far less exhilaration if there had been no risk.
Moonlight flowed over the refugee camp tha
t lay between the South City and the foreign settlement, softening the jagged contours of clapboard hovels and smoothing the lines from faces pinched by hunger. Despite their professed benevolence, the Field Marshal of the Small Swords and the Heavenly King of the Taipings had inflicted acute suffering on the common people. Aside from that obvious impression, Saul and Aisek were detached from the misery surrounding them as they considered the Heavenly King’s proposals.
“First we must see if we can do it,” Saul stressed. “If we can’t, there’s no point in thinking about it. First we must check …”
He broke off in midsentence. He had dismissed the distant hoof-falls as just another sound in the hectic night, but their drumbeat was drawing close. A detachment of Manchu cavalrymen swept around the refugee camp, careless whether their horses crushed sleepers on the ground or toppled scurrying pedestrians. Emerging from the crush of refugees like leopards bursting from deep grass, five horsemen encircled the partners.
Moonlight glinted on the barrels of their muskets and silvered their round hats. At the command of their lieutenant, two troopers slid off their rough-haired ponies. Awkward in their rigid-soled felt boots, they approached Aisek. Swords flashed from the scarlet scabbards that flapped against their calf-length yellow tunics. Hook noses bisected the soldiers’ flat faces, and their eyes were slits when they raised their swords above their heads. Though pitted with rust, the curved blades gleamed in the moonlight. Saul felt Aisek shiver beside him in the stillness.
“Ni shih …” The lieutenant’s question was an assertion. “You are Li Ai-shih, a merchant of Shanghai?”
Aisek’s face contorted in terror, and his head trembled.
“You will accompany us!” the lieutenant commanded.
A cavalryman bundled Aisek onto a horse and mounted behind him. So numbed by fear he could not control his limbs, the merchant sagged in the saddle like a rag doll.
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