“That circumstance is no bar,” the deputy chief clerk assured him. “Certainly not when mitigating circumstances exist, as the Prefect of Huating observed. The family character of the offense, the fact that the crime arose within a filial relationship, is actually an advantage, as you’ll see.”
Aaron leaned forward intently. The actual practices of the law, as expounded by Master Way, who was part of the living machinery, were remarkably different from the impression he had formed from his study of antique commentaries in preparation for the civil service examination. For the first time since sentence had been passed on his father, the weight of despair lifted from his spirits. For the first time, he believed his father’s life might be spared. He drew a deep breath to slow the beating of his heart. His exultation made it difficult to attend to the clerk’s continuing explanation.
He realized how irrelevant his studies were to the way the Empire was actually governed. He had not, he realized, read a single text that was less than three hundred years old.
“The prisoner is not normally examined again,” Master Way said. “Normally, no new evidence is called. If the examiners find striking deficiencies, the process is referred back to the original court. But that need not concern us. The evidence here is full, particularly your own brilliant, though erroneous, submission.”
Aaron was pleased by that casual praise and chastened by its immediate withdrawal. He acknowledged the compliment with a slight bow and ignored the reprimand.
“I have heard with astonishment that the barbarians from across the oceans allow strange men called lawyers to speak for defendants,” the functionary resumed. “Our only lawyers are, of course, the Mandarins themselves. However, opportunities exist to, shall we say, help the courts to find the exact truth and the precisely relevant statutes. There I can be of assistance. Immodestly I must say I can be of great assistance.”
“What can I do?” Aaron’s caution was submerged by Master Way’s didactic eloquence. “What do you need from me?”
“Another moment, young Lee, and we’ll come to that. You know, I assume, that, speaking broadly, no capital sentence is carried out until the autumn?”
Aaron nodded. Respect for the spirits of the land prevented executions until nature herself had lapsed into the temporary death of autumn. Moreover, all appeals were reviewed first by the Assembly of the Lower Judiciary, which was drawn from the Ministry of Justice, the Court of Revision, and the guardians of the Censorate, the independent Bureau of Investigation, which was always watchful for official error. The Assembly of the High Judiciary, made up of Senior Mandarins from the same bodies, then re-examined every case.
“Your father’s case must come before the Lower Judiciary before mid-July if the provisional postponement of sentence till after the Autumn Assizes is to be reaffirmed. We must work fast. But, given adequate support, I foresee no insuperable difficulties.”
“And then? If we succeed, what then?”
“The Autumn Assizes in mid-September. When sentences are delivered. Then, in mid-October, the Emperor’s vermilion brush checks the names of those to be executed, usually only a few. We Chinese are not bloodthirsty, whatever the barbarians say. They are far more cruel from what I’ve heard.”
“And if the Emperor does not check my father’s name,” Aaron interrupted, “he escapes death?”
“Not quite, young Lee. Your father must escape the vermilion check again the following year. But, as I hinted earlier, the family character of this crime means he must escape the hook only twice, not ten times like other criminals.”
“Then His Imperial Majesty is the key? And who can even dream …”
“There are ways, my young friend, ways to touch the Emperor’s heart. Naturally, they are costly. But we can talk of cost later.”
Master Way pointedly laid his chopsticks down and set his empty teacup beside them. Aaron rose and took his leave of his host, volubly praising the food and courteously expressing his hope of repaying the hospitality.
“Young Lee, it’s been a pleasure to talk with a promising young scholar,” the functionary replied. “A great pleasure. Of course, we shall soon meet again.”
Aaron’s mind was in turmoil when he stepped into the afternoon shadows of the Crooked Sickle hutung. The bureaucrat’s optimism was infectious, but optimism was Master Way’s stock in trade. Yet the meticulous legal safeguards he had described were grounds for guarded hope.
Could the deputy chief clerk fulfill his implicit promises? Could he influence the Higher Judiciary? Above all, could he, somehow, reach the Emperor? Those were the chief questions.
No, not quite. The chief question was simple: Would the money-pouch he had deliberately laid on the ebony table and “forgotten” cover “first expenses”? One hundred silver taels, some £35 sterling, would support an artisan’s family in comfort for three years. But was it enough to initiate the arduous process of winning his father a reprieve?
Well, Aaron reflected, if it were not, he would know soon enough.
CHAPTER 15
July 4, 1855
SHANGHAI
The Filipino band had been gleaned from the crews of merchant ships on the premise that all men from the Spanish Philippine Islands were natural musicians. On their second public appearance, the Filipinos were justifying the confidence of Whitney Griswold, senior partner of Russell and Company, the chief American trading firm on the China coast. Whatever their musical deficiencies, their appearance awakened pride in the host and envy in his guests on the seventy-ninth anniversary of the American Declaration of Independence. Whitney Griswold had dressed his bandsmen in an approximation of the dress uniform of the United States Marines. Fortunately, the blue tunics and white trousers with scarlet stripes were cotton. At the height of the brutal Shanghai summer, woolen tunics with choker collars might have induced apoplexy.
The commodore of the U. S. Navy squadron anchored off the Bund was mildly offended by that desecration of the uniform. Too well bred to protest aloud, he had pointedly withdrawn to his flagship, the U. S. S. Susquehanna, when the dancing began. He had not, however, ordered his officers to leave. Set off by gilt epaulettes and gold braid, their royal-blue mess jackets stood out in elegant splendor among the motley civilians under the octagonal Chinese lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Released from the restraint of the commodore’s presence, the high-spirited junior officers made the most of the rare opportunity to flirt with white women.
Their prospects, however, were not splendid, for the company in the senior partner’s house in the Russell compound overlooking the Hwangpoo was small by Shanghai standards. No more than fifty had sat down to dinner, forty-odd men and eight women, while only thirty men and six women remained for the dance. Among those who took their leave shortly after the commodore—and drew the sting from his departure—was Margaret MacGregor, Fronah Haleevie’s chaperone. Dr. William MacGregor had office hours early the next morning.
The rising breeze teased the scarlet tassels of the lanterns, while the riding lights of the ships in the stream rocked when wavelets slapped their sides. Through the French windows the far bank of the Hwangpoo was a purple streak intermittently lit by heat lightning.
The Filipinos were playing a waltz, the new craze from Vienna, and Sarah Haleevie’s direst fears were confirmed as the band glissaded into “Die Schoen-brunner.” Though partners did not embrace, gentlemen and ladies touched each other at arm’s length. Sarah would have found the spectacle not merely abhorrent but horrifying—a recrudescence of Sodom and Gomorrah on the Shanghai Bund.
For Sarah’s daughter the evening was magical. Fronah’s senses were inflamed by the mingled perfumes, and her adolescent fantasies were surpassed by the sparkling lights and the brilliant company. She twirled across the shining mahogany floor, a sprite in a billowing orange ball gown.
She hardly felt her partner’s hand on her waist, though she was very much aware of the American lieutenant’s compact body in shimmering blue and shining gold. She was d
elightedly aware that the dark-blue eyes fixed on hers and the sable-black head bent toward hers were arousing paroxysms of jealousy in young Iain Matthews of Jardines, who had, as usual, claimed most of her dances. Otherwise, Lieutenant Gabriel Hyde was just another soft-spoken and courteous American. At, she guessed, the age of twenty-three, he was another older man whose attention flattered her—and frightened her a little. Knowing she would never see him again, Fronah listened with half an ear to his banter.
“I watched you during dinner,” he was saying. “How could any man not watch you? You’re a delight to the eyes.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” She flaunted her new familiarity with foreign ways. “You must be Irish with that silver tongue.”
“Not at all, I assure you. But, pardon me, I’m fascinated by your … oh … odd tastes. You took no oysters or shrimp. None of the duck or roast beef, but only fish and oeufs à la Russe. I know young ladies eat like birds because they’re so tight-laced they …”
“Please, Lieutenant, don’t be indelicate.” Fronah protested conventionally, though his palm rested on the whalebone that compressed her waist under the orange satin. “Or I must ask you to escort me to my chair.”
“Sorry if I offended you, ma’am.” Gabriel Hyde did not sound contrite. “But, I was saying, you partook handsomely of the fish and eggs. I like a young lady with a healthy appetite, but I don’t understand yours.”
“An affliction, Lieutenant. A delicate digestion, having lived long in the Orient. But you’re being indelicate again.”
“And I beg your pardon again. I won’t be indelicate a third time, I promise you.”
They waltzed in silence for almost a minute before Gabriel Hyde’s curiosity impelled him to fresh indiscretion.
“Haleevie … Miss Fronah Haleevie. Now that’s an interesting name, an unusual name. I wonder … Pardon my interest, ma’am, but where does it come from?”
“Europe, I suppose,” she replied airily. “Where does any name come from? It’s not a matter of much consequence to me.”
“And you say you’ve lived long in the Orient, a long time for such a young lady.” He remained unabashed and inquisitive. “And your family, too? In India as well as China, perhaps? I detect a delightful trace of a lilt in your voice.”
“For a time, Lieutenant,” Fronah parried again. “Just a short time.”
She was determined that the stranger would not learn what all Shanghai-landers knew: that she was actually alien to this congenial company. Since she had not yet learned how alluring the exotic could be, she was determined not to appear different. Failing to snub him, Fronah, who was learning fast, resorted to an age-old feminine device.
“Now, Lieutenant,” she said, “we’ve talked enough about me, and I’m not interesting at all. Let’s talk about you. Tell me about yourself.”
“There’s little enough to tell,” he countered. “School, then Bowdoin College. Poor but honest parents. Devotion to duty—and molasses-slow advancement through the officer ranks of the U. S. Navy. A banal and dreary career, Miss Haleevie.”
“Molasses-slow, Lieutenant? What does that mean?”
“I suppose you people call it treacle, don’t you? That black, sticky sugar syrup that flows with maddening slowness. We Americans say slow as molasses in winter. That’s what promotion’s like in the U. S. Navy if you haven’t been to the trade school.”
“The trade school, Lieutenant?” Suspecting that he was teasing her, Fronah retreated into naïveté. “Another quaint American term?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Haleevie. I do apologize.” He smiled unrepentantly. “Annapolis, the Naval Academy, like your Dartmouth.”
“I see, Lieutenant.” She stressed the British pronunciation, leftenant. “And you didn’t attend this trade school?”
“No, thank God. A naval career is stultifying enough without having your mind set in Portland cement first. But, as you’d say, we’ve talked enough about me. Frankly, I’m fascinated by your name. Can you tell me more? It sounds as if it might be …”
The perspiring Filipinos droned the final notes of “Die Schoenbrunner” with dolorous gaiety that was more Spanish than Viennese, and the partners separated with bows and curtsies. Delighted that Gabriel Hyde had thought her English, Fronah was equally delighted when the close of the waltz brought his inquisition to a close. He was undeniably attractive, but too curious and too rude. Too Yankee, in fact, far too sure of his own charm and too nosy, too damned—she savored the forbidden word—nosy.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” she said. “It was delightful.”
“Even more delightful for me.” Gabriel Hyde no longer bantered. “Perhaps we can do it again. The Susquehanna will be in port another week. I hope we can meet again.”
“I don’t think so, Lieutenant Hyde.” She snubbed him without regret. “My parents would never permit it. It wouldn’t be proper.”
Turning from the American, Fronah swayed toward Iain Matthews, who was seething on a spindly gilt chair with a yellow velvet cushion the color of his fashionably ear-length hair. She had conscientiously smiled, nodded, and fluttered her eyelashes in response to the lieutenant’s unpleasant conversation. That display was not intended for him, but for Iain Matthews, since the young Englishman must not be too sure of her. Besides, it was a lark to goad him to jealous rage and, afterward, not placate him, but force him to admit how childishly he was behaving. He was most attractive when most contrite—and most malleable when most bewildered.
The muscular nineteen-year-old was, of course, a regular Sunday communicant at the Episcopalian church, but his deepest devotion was rendered to rugby, cricket, and brandy. His crinkled blond hair normally framed an expression of vapid superiority. His short nose, growing directly from his forehead, was pointed; his washed-out blue eyes were cunning; and his small mouth was arrogantly curved. His messmates called him Reynard, and he did look like a fox. Nonetheless, the unfledged youth was Fronah’s ideal of an English gentleman.
“See, Iain, I’ve come back, just as I promised,” she said, smiling. “You were silly, weren’t you? I can dance with other gentlemen. You don’t own me, do you?”
“Wish I did, then you’d act different,” he said gruffly. “Anyway, this dance is mine.”
The Filipinos hurled themselves into a reel in response to the demands of the many Scots present. Twirling round Iain’s extended hand and curvetting with down-pointed toes to Caledonian whoops, Fronah forgot her irritation with the American lieutenant. Her heart pounded in exhilaration, and she laughed into Iain’s flushed face each time they drew near. When the reel ended with all the dancers joining hands in a whirling circle, both were panting—and his resentment was forgotten.
Equally exhausted, the Filipinos left the dais, and a redheaded giant wearing a Stewart kilt sat down at the Bechstein grand. Demanding an eight-ounce beaker of whiskey, he waited until a circle of sycophants had formed before crashing his russet-furred hands down on the keyboard. The giant gave tongue in breathy Gaelic, and his claque shouted the chorus: “Rabin Tamsan’s Smiddy Oh!”
“Oh, my God,” Iain Matthews exclaimed. “Another dotty Scotch song. Outside will be quieter.”
The moonlight on the columns of the veranda created shadowed havens. The rising wind cooled their flushed faces and fluttered Fronah’s skirts. The riding lights of the men-of-war seesawed on the Hwangpoo, while sampans scurried for shelter alongside the Bund. The clouds around the moon glowed unearthly yellow, and salt spray tanged the air.
Iain led Fronah to a wicker settee hidden in a pool of shadow. She sat primly a foot away from him, fluttering her mother’s rose silk fan.
“Whew, I needed this,” he said. “They’re hot work, those Scotch dances. This is better. The breeze and the quiet.”
“It’s still hot, Iain, stifling. I do wish the typhoon would come.”
“You could be sorry you said that, Fronah. Look here, can’t you come a little closer? I don’t bite, you know.”
“B
ut you do … do other things.” She giggled. “Well, all right, just a little closer. But you must promise …”
“Don’t be so coy. You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. I just want to ask if you can come riding Saturday. Just the two of us, and the groom, of course.”
“I shouldn’t, Iain, really I shouldn’t. My mother …”
“Oh, your mother! She’s right out of the Middle Ages. You’re grown up, Fronah, grown up and beautiful. You’ve got to see your mother—your father, too—as people, not some kind of saints. They’re only human. They’ve got faults just like you and me. You’ve got to be independent … think for yourself, not just listen to their old-fashioned ideas.”
“But, Iain, I’m not even supposed to go out so much. They’d die if they knew Margaret MacGregor had left—if they knew I was alone with you.”
“Don’t be a child. You know they also … Well, just like any man and woman. You’ve got to realize they’re just people.”
“I suppose so, Iain,” she replied hesitantly. “You certainly help me see them as people. No, they’re not all-wise. And they do have some strange ideas. But I am becoming more independent. It’s hard, you know.”
“Oh, God, Fronah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to badger you. Of course you’re getting more independent all the time. And that’s the right thing to do.”
He paused and stared at the moon, chafing his red-knuckled hands nervously. Gazing demurely at her fan, Fronah let the awkward silence grow. He must not realize that she was just as nervous as he.
“Come here and put your head on my shoulder,” he finally blurted. “We’ll just relax and look at the clouds and forget about your old people and my taipan.”
His arm twined around her waist. Fronah flinched, as she did each time he pulled her close, but suppressed her foolish fears. She would show him that she was truly independent, truly a young lady of the nineteenth century. There was nothing to fear. He was an English gentleman, and she was armored by her many-layered costume. When his arm tightened around her waist and his hand stroked her shoulder, she leaned toward him. She regretted having tormented him earlier, and she was resolved to make amends—within limits, of course.
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