Afterward, he bathed and chose clean undergarments, though he had washed his entire body and changed his clothes only a week earlier. He must not brood at home, lest the rumor mongers speculate on his seclusion. It was, however, better not to seek the company of his peers when his mood was so volatile, alternating between exaltation and depression. He put on his robe of ceremony bordered with green-and-white wave patterns and strode into the hutung to join the revelers.
He would breakfast at a street stall, where his splendid presence would excite awe. It might be eccentric for a Manchu nobleman to mingle with the Chinese rabble on a day of Dynastic rejoicing. But an heir was also the Emperor’s gift to his people. It was their day as much as the Court’s. Reflecting that the insecurity that oppressed both rulers and subjects had lifted, the Baronet stepped through the circular gate into the throng in the hutung.
“Hsiaorh lung lai-lar!” A coolie with an enormous scarlet carbuncle on his forehead waved an earthenware flask of bai-garh. “The small dragon has come! A small dragon for the Dragon Throne!”
Of course! This was the Year of the Dragon, supreme among the twelve animals of the zodiac, which gave their names to the years. To be born in the year of the dragon, to be a dragon, meant to be endowed with great talents and great prospects. To be born in that year was gloriously propitious for the infant who would some day be the eighth of his line to ascend the Dragon Throne.
As Jung Lu pushed through the throng, his spirits rose higher. For once he was not oppressed by the commoners’ stench of garlic and sweat. Even the yellow dust raised by hundreds of shuffling feet was a radiant cloud. The nobleman gave himself without reserve to the joy of the crowd and to his own anticipations.
All Peking bubbled with gaiety. Rainbow lanterns dangling beside gates glowed like the lights of a fairy kingdom. Scarlet bunting fluttered from eaves, and golden streamers gyrated on poles above the throng. Cymbals clashed two inches from Jung Lu’s nose, while firecrackers rattled above booming drums and the sounding horns.
“Hsiaorh lung lai-lar!” the Baronet shouted at a fat merchant. “The small dragon has arrived. Rejoice! It’s a great day!”
The infant should have been his son, he reflected, not the son of that weakling on the Dragon Throne. Why was he rejoicing? Only a fool would rejoice at this ultimate humiliation. He snatched a flask of bai-garh from a waving hand, gulped the raw spirits, and hurled the empty flask away. Why, a watching coolie wondered, should the young Manchu lord’s face be twisted in a demon scowl on such a glorious morning?
The bedchamber of the Virtuous Concubine was that morning not only the center of the Forbidden City but the focus of the hopes of all loyal subjects of the Great Pure Dynasty. The lanes leading to Yehenala’s dwelling were alive with twittering women and lisping eunuchs as brilliantly colored as tropical birds. The morning sun lit the gifts they bore: glittering gold and silver; shining jades and pearls; glowing rubies and sapphires; bright lacquerware and shimmering porcelains. No expenditure was too great to woo the favor of the twenty-year-old concubine who was now supreme in the Imperial Court. Her good will could not only shield them from the Emperor’s rages but enrich them manyfold. Heedless of dignity, the great ladies of China jostled and reviled each other in their anxiety to be among the first to lay their tribute at Yehenala’s feet.
The Empress Niuhura’s gilt-and-scarlet palanquin was tossed by that throng before the Court ladies and eunuchs reluctantly gave way. She, who had failed to give her lord a son, was also eager to present the lavish gifts carried by files of eunuchs in green-and-yellow brocade. The placid Empress was almost Chinese in her docile virtue, while the fiery Yehenala was a throwback to the headstrong women of the nomadic Manchu tribes. Niuhura still enjoyed formal procedure, but she knew she was no longer preeminent.
Bobbing on the tide of females, the Empress’s palanquin approached Yehenala’s modest dwelling. The eunuch bearers were lowering it to the ground when a torrent of acclamations rolled over them.
“Huang-shang wan sui! Wan wan sui!” Court ladies and eunuchs chanted the salutation reserved for the Son of Heaven. “Majesty, ten thousand years! May Your Majesty live ten thousand times ten thousand years!”
The scented silken sea opened before an enormous golden palanquin, whose curtains swayed with the jaunty trot of the twelve eunuchs in dragon-scrolled robes under its gilt carrying-poles. The Emperor had not mustered the armed eunuchs who guarded his sacred person and his glittering regalia on state occasions. There would be time enough for such pageantry when he offered sacrifices of thanksgiving to Heaven after ritually informing his ministers of the birth of his son.
He was, nonetheless, splendidly attired for the felicitous occasion. His plump, self-indulgent features were lit by jubilation under his conical summer crown. His sparse eyebrows were cocked high in delight, and his slack lips were drawn back to reveal his stained teeth. His brocaded robe glowed golden when the sun touched the five Imperial dragon heads embroidered among the twelve symbols of his spiritual and temporal authority. At this moment of triumph, the twenty-five-year-old Son of Heaven radiated the authority he too often failed to demonstrate.
He alighted nimbly from the palanquin and, waving jauntily, ascended the narrow marble steps. The bright-hued sea froze into unmoving waves as Court ladies and eunuchs knelt to touch their foreheads to the ground. Entering the open doors, the Emperor strode through rooms heaped with presents.
“Dai-lai Huang-tze,” he commanded. “Bring the prince to me.”
Only the infant’s head was visible above the Imperial-yellow swaddling clothes. The Emperor carefully examined the pale face marred by the red striations of birth and gingerly extended his forefinger to the infant. The crumpled baby features contracted in fear, and the small mouth wailed. The nursemaid, herself the daughter of a marquis, was torn between responsibility for her charge and deference to her sovereign. She bobbed an awkward bow and clucked soothingly to the infant.
“He has my eyebrows,” the Emperor declared complacently. “A good portent, such fine thick eyebrows. He’s a strong baby, isn’t he?”
“Very strong, Majesty, and very beautiful. Also highly talented. The signs are written on his face.”
“No need for soothsayers’ tricks,” the Emperor said, smiling. “No need to read his fate on his face. With his ancestors … his father … he must be strong and talented.”
“And his mother so beautiful, Majesty.” The marquis’s daughter played to her sovereign’s vanity. “The Virtuous Concubine is the beauty of the Forbidden City.”
“Yes, that too,” he agreed grudgingly. “The Virtuous Concubine is quite beautiful.”
The Emperor had momentarily forgotten the woman who had borne the infant that was his personal triumph. He recalled the title given Yehenala when she entered the palace. Yi, literally virtuous and chaste, further implied that she was an exemplar among women. Still, he reflected, they could have done worse. They could have called her modest and dutiful, qualities she emphatically did not possess.
Yehenala’s bedchamber overlooked a small garden, where orange azaleas and scarlet rhododendrons framed dwarf pines gnarled by time and the cunning of generations of eunuch gardeners. The scent of the white flowers of wild ginger was astringent amid the musky perfumes of the ladies-in-waiting. The room stank of women. Quite properly, no man other than the father could visit a mother for a full month after her confinement. The rank female odor was polluting.
Yehenala lay in a nest of aquamarine velvet cushions, the silver-embroidered pleats of her bed gown soft above the amethyst coverlet. Her features were drawn, the perfect oval of her face dented by hollows beneath her cheekbones. Her blue-black hair lacked its normal sheen, though it was intricately coiffed. White powder coated her translucent skin, and her eyes, outlined by kohl, sparkled with belladonna under sapphire-painted lids.
Decorum, as well as vanity, required Yehenala to adorn herself to receive her lord upon the extraordinary occasion of his calling upon
her instead of sending eunuchs to fetch her. An emerald jade dragon set with pearls transfixed her hair, and a white jade plaque shimmered on her necklace of tourmaline and amethysts. Her fingernails were protected by three-inch gilt sheaths enameled with indigo orchids, while rubies within green jade hoops dangled from her ear lobes.
“You are well, Nala?” the Emperor asked awkwardly. “Truly well?”
“This slave is well, Majesty, and drunk with happiness.”
“Then all is well in the Empire,” he declared magisterially. “All is indeed well.”
His awkwardness touched Yehenala deeply. She knew he spoke from the heart, though it was difficult for him to express his love for her. He had all his life been trained to curb his tongue and bridle his emotions lest he impair his dignity. It was difficult for the Supreme Monarch to tell her of his devotion even when they were alone. It was impossible for him under the eyes of a dozen ladies-in-waiting, eunuchs, and maidservants. No man, certainly not the Emperor, could speak from the heart when so many ears listened. Every word they uttered would be repeated thoughout the Forbidden City within hours and would be the gossip of every hutung tomorrow.
“We, too, are drunk with happiness,” he declared. “And the infant? It is in good health?”
“They tell me, Majesty, the prince is strong and healthy. My ladies say they’ve never seen a more robust baby.”
“Splendid, Nala, splendid. This is the happiest day of Our life. An heir at last! The happiest day of Our life, even though …”
“Even though, Majesty? Is something wrong? What can possibly cloud this moment?”
“Just the same old thing, Nala. Our armies fighting the Long Hairs have suffered further defeats. We are, unfortunately, accustomed to such news.”
“Further defeats, Majesty? How frightful! In my joy, I had forgotten the rebels. What can be done?”
“When you’re fully recovered, Nala, after the celebrations, let us talk about the Long Hairs. We more and more think you are right and Our counselors are wrong. A strong hand is needed.”
“Your slave is honored by Your Majesty’s confidence. But for now …”
Yehenala glanced around the room, and the Emperor, instinctively conspiratorial, grasped her meaning immediately. The hands of the eunuchs and maidservants sorting the presents did not move, and the needles of the ladies-in-waiting hovered motionless over their embroidery frames while they listened avidly.
“The happiest day of Our life,” the Emperor repeated. “And We wish you to be happy, too.”
“Happy, Majesty? Your slave is ecstatic. To bear a son is joy enough for any woman. To bear a son to the Lord of Ten Thousand Years is the greatest joy Your Majesty’s slave can imagine.”
“And nothing could make you happier?” He smiled archly. “Nothing?”
“Nothing, Majesty. My joy is complete.”
“Well, then, We see no need to tell you …”
“Of course not, Majesty,” Nala laughed, pretending amusement at his heavy, tantalizing banter. “Your Majesty is, always, the best judge.”
“Since that is so, We shall tell you. This evening We shall promulgate your promotion. As of this moment, you are no longer Yi Ping, but Yi Fei.”
“I am overwhelmed, Majesty.” Yehenala reached out her hands, though she could not embrace him before the underlings. “I am overwhelmed by Your Majesty’s magnanimity.”
It was good news, very good news. It was also the least he could do. Advancement from Ping, concubine of the third rank, to Fei, the second rank, was only fitting for the mother of the Emperor’s only son. He could, of course, have given her the first rank, but her rise had been rapid, only five years from the fifth rank to the second. So many were jealous of her behind their carmine smiles and their perfumed congratulations that it was, perhaps, better that he had not fanned their envy by skipping her a grade. At any rate, she was now a secondary wife who could not be discarded at his whim.
“I thank Your Majesty profoundly,” she repeated. “Your Majesty’s slave prostrates herself at Your Majesty’s feet.”
“As is no more than fitting, Nala.” The Emperor glanced at her attendants, but none smiled at his humor.
“No more than fitting, Majesty,” she laughed, reflecting that it was sometimes sad to be so far above ordinary mortals they dared not smile at your jests.
“We have also considered the infant’s name.” The Emperor flicked his hand in dismissal and was silent until all her attendants had left the bedchamber. “The prince will be called Tsai Chün.”
Yehenala gasped in jubilation. The name bestowed on the prince, her son, was far more important than her own promotion. It meant, quite simply, that he would in his turn be Emperor.
It was inevitable that he be called Tsai. The first word of the name of each successive generation of the Imperial Family had been determined a century earlier by the great Chien Lung Emperor in a classical couplet. Her son could not have been called anything but Tsai, meaning to promulgate.
But Chün, meaning pure and majestic, was an inestimable honor for the infant prince—and for his mother. That title affirmed that the boy stood first in line for the Dragon Throne. Since he was the Emperor’s only son, it was likely that he would succeed his father. But the Emperor might yet father other sons, and Dynastic Law did not require him to designate his firstborn the Crown Prince. The Hsien Feng Emperor would probably not do so for some time. No emperor was eager to anoint his successor. None wished to think overmuch about his own inevitable death “when ten thousand years had passed,” and none wished to create a cabal of ambitious eunuchs and officials around an anointed heir.
The Emperor had gone as far as he could by implicitly affirming the infant as Heir Presumptive. Formal designation as Heir Apparent, entirely at the Emperor’s pleasure, might be awarded later. Of course, her son might not succeed to the throne. He might not even survive the first perilous month of life.
Yehenala thrust away that somber thought. It was equally possible that the Emperor would father no other sons or that, if he did, she would be their mother. Only a week earlier her favorite soothsayer had predicted that she would bear a prince who would mount the Dragon Throne before another cycle of twelve years had passed.
She prayed to Kwan Yin, the Goddess of Mercy, to keep the Emperor vigorous. But her implacable intelligence told her that she would exult in the position of mother of a child emperor. No woman could exercise greater power than a mother regent. If the Hsien Feng Emperor should mount the Heavenly Dragon, she, Nala of the Yehe, would be supreme in the Great Empire.
CHAPTER 25
May 17, 1856
THE YANGTZE NEAR PACHIAOCHEN
The Low Dah, the Old Great One, grunted contentedly as his eyes swept the heavens. Knowing the moon would be only a sliver of light, he had chosen this night to run the gantlet of Imperial war junks patrolling the Long River between Pachiaochen and Taiping-held Chenkiang, a stretch as familiar as the cabin of his own black junk. The scattered islands eighty miles above Shanghai were a blessing for smugglers and pirates, while the constant skirmishing between the Imps and the Taipings impelled peaceful villagers to keep their houses dark. But no man could have known that a veil of clouds would gather just after midnight, so that not even steely starlight imperiled his vessel.
The owner-master gave thanks to Tien Mu Hou, the Mother Empress of Heaven, the patron goddess of all who hazarded their lives on the waters. He had known he enjoyed her esteem since the lunatic voyage from Soochow more than two years earlier that brought the mad foreigner and the Chinese who was almost as mad safely to Shanghai. The goddess was again demonstrating her special favor. Two bags of silver Marie Theresa dollars lay in the wooden chest in his cabin beneath the scarlet shrine where incense sticks smoldered before her carved image. He had been paid twice for this voyage: once by the barbarian Ha-lee-vee, whose contraband he carried; and again by the young scholar who was so desperate to reach Nanking, the old Southern Capital, now called Tienking, t
he Heavenly Capital.
The rudder, as large as a temple door, responded to his light touch, and water gurgled through the diamond-shaped holes cut in the teak to reduce its weight. The junk pointed toward the shore, where the downstream current ran less strongly. The loom of the banks would prevent its being silhouetted by even the faintest light.
“Hwen-dan …” he said softly. “You addled eggs, you dogs’ droppings! Scull harder. They’re real, those big war junks out there. Their guns are real, too. Scull harder if you want to live. And, for Tien Hou’s sake, smear some grease on the oarlocks. They’re squealing like sows under the butcher’s knife. You’re less use than a eunuch’s prick. You scull like old whores rotten with pox …”
His lips closed, imprisoning even richer epithets behind the palisade of his blackened teeth. Though his sons, who were his crew, were as competent as one could expect of boys in their twenties and thirties, it always helped to encourage them with obscenity-spiced exhortations. He did not fear that his hoarse whisper would carry across the river. But that girl who had come aboard with the young scholar, there was no need to offend her ears.
She was probably a tart making the foolhardy voyage because of a promise of many silver dollars, for she spoke colloquial Shanghainese like his own daughters. Nonetheless, she might be a lady, the young fellow’s wife or concubine, though that was unlikely. The scholar was obviously a bit mad or he wouldn’t sail on a smuggling junk, but he would not imperil a lady of his own family. Besides, she strode confidently on unbound feet, and no scholar would take a wife or concubine from a family that couldn’t give its daughters golden lilies. There was something very odd about the girl in the simple tunic and trousers. Though she carried herself as proudly as an empress, she hid her face.
Still, it wasn’t his affair what idiocies the gentry got up. His business was to sail his junk to the Heavenly Capital and deliver his cargo of gunpowder, lead, rifles, and printer’s type. Why the Taipings wanted type so urgently only Tien Mu Hou knew—but that wasn’t his concern either.
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