Mandarin

by Elegant, Robert;

  The rotund Chief of the Council of Regency bulged within the coarse white mourning robe he wore over the field uniform of a lieutenant general. His riding boots squelching in the liquid mud, he knelt on a stone before the improvised lean-to that sheltered the Empress Dowagers from the driving Manchurian rain in the early afternoon of October 28, 1861.

  Before they left Jehol, Prince Yee had affirmed his unique supremacy by taking the title Chien Kuo, Lord Protector of the Nation, which had not been used for a century. He believed his authority unchallengeable, since the Dowagers were powerless after ratifying the Edict of Renunciation. Nonetheless, neither mockery nor pretense marred the profound obeisance he rendered Niuhura and Yehenala’s ceremonial precedence.

  “No need to kowtow, Prince Yee.” Yehenala’s concern was saccharine. “The yellow mud is sticky.”

  “I humbly thank Your Majesty.”

  “We thank you for protecting two helpless widows on this sad journey.” Niuhura was equally courteous. “Without your kindness, we’d be lost.”

  “The danger is almost over, Majesty. Once past the Five Dragon Mountain and through the Great Wall, all will be serene.”

  “Unfortunately, Prince, We do not control the weather,” Yehenala observed. “Heaven must be angry. I’ve never seen such a wild storm.”

  “It’s not unusual in these passes, Majesty.” Prince Yee bowed again, and his conical hat tumbled off. “I myself believe Heaven has been weeping for the former Emperor these past two days.”

  Yehenala smiled at the bedraggled figure to temper her tart remark. His queue was tied with the white ribbon of mourning, while gray stubble bristled on his crown and his cheeks, which were normally shaved every morning. No male subject of the Great Pure Dynasty could permit the touch of a barber’s razor until the final obsequies for the deceased Emperor were performed in the Northern Capital. The rain-drenched and mud-splattered Lord Protector looked more like the brigands they feared than an Imperial Prince as he knelt before the rock face of the ravine.

  Yehenala bore Prince Yee no malice, no more than she did his henchman, the younger Prince Cheng. Both believed they were behaving with perfect propriety in accordance with Sacred Dynastic Law. The Princes were an obstacle in her path, but she could no more hate them than she could hate the boulders on which her litter bearers stumbled.

  She both hated and feared her mortal enemy, the Assistant Grand Chancellor Su Shun, who was the architect of the conspiracy. He was, fortunately, already a full day’s march behind them, and he would arrive in Peking several days after them with the cortege bearing the former Emperor’s remains. Prince Yee and Prince Cheng, too, should have accompanied the bier, but they were anxious to reach the Northern Capital to carry out their duties. Besides, they did not wish to let Yehenala out of their sight.

  Her sister’s husband, Prince Chun, rode beside the Imperial Catafalque, an immense gilded structure borne over the mountains with glacial stateliness on the shoulders of a hundred and twenty-four bearers. Dynastic Law providentially required the brother of the former Emperor to escort the Imperial Remains to the Forbidden City, though it forbade the child Emperor and the Empress Dowagers to do so. Yehenala’s brother-in-law could therefore keep watch on the evil Assistant Grand Chancellor. But, she wondered, could the vigilance of that naïve twenty-one-year-old frustrate the wily forty-six-year-old Mandarin who had made himself the richest commoner in the Empire while serving as Minister of Finance?

  Not until she entered the Imperial City through the Gate of Heavenly Peace would she feel safe under Prince Kung’s protection. Despite her pride in her Manchu heritage, Yehenala knew she was a creature of the warmer South, not these bleak plains broken by precipitate mountain ranges. Once this exhausting journey was over, she promised herself, she would never again venture north of the Great Wall, which marked the edge of civilization. The splendidly restored Yüan Ming Yüan would be her refuge from the summer heat, rather than the Imperial Hunting Park in Jehol.

  Their chief danger was the brigands who swarmed on the marches of the Empire. She could not dismiss the malice of the Assistant Grand Chancellor, but he could do little to harm her at present, for the Imperial Procession was guarded by Prince Yee’s Household Troops. That upright—though grievously misguided—Manchu would not use violence against the child-Emperor or the Empress Dowagers, though he would have turned a blind eye to any “accident” that befell the defiant Dowagers in Jehol.

  Her son squirmed on his small stool beside her, and she stroked his head. The baby stubble on his crown was soft as new grass under her palm. His cold-whitened and wind-chapped fingertips protruded from the cuffs of his padded coats, which held his arms out like a stuffed doll. Even the common barbarian soldiers wore small divided bags to warm their hands, but the descendants of the nomadic Manchu warriors scorned finger bags as effete—even for children and women. Yehenala chafed her son’s hands between her palms before tucking them firmly into his cuffs and drawing his sleeves together.

  She would have given ten taels for a pair of sleeve dogs, one to warm her hands and another for the child’s. The flight from Peking had been so precipitate she couldn’t bring her own pet lion dogs, much less their minuscule cousins, which ladies, eunuchs, and old gentlemen carried in their capacious sleeves. She had wept for her six lion dogs, above all for the arrogant golden male Semkila, and her heart still ached for him. Still, no sleeve dog, however stunted, was small enough to fit into her son’s sleeves.

  “Mama, I’m cold,” the child Emperor complained. “When can we go home?”

  “Very soon, treasure, we’ll be home,” she soothed him. “And we’ll always be together. In just a few days, we’ll be in Peking. Do you remember the Forbidden City?”

  “A little, Mama, but not much. Will Papa be there, too? Is he waiting for us?”

  “No, treasure, you are the Emperor now. Your papa can’t be there.”

  “Why not? Doesn’t Papa want to see me?”

  She had been dreading that question for two months. It was not her Dynastic duty to tell him of his father’s death, a task prescribed for the eldest male of the former Emperor’s generation. Prince Kung had wished to tell him in Jehol, but she had forbidden it.

  Yehenala felt that only she could tell the little Emperor his father had departed forever. She alone could comfort the boy, and she alone could fill the place his sometimes affectionate but often distant father had held in his heart.

  “Your papa has mounted the Heavenly Dragon, treasure,” Yehenala said gently. “He’s gone to see the Jade Emperor, the Ruler of Heaven. You and I won’t see your papa again till we go to Heaven many years from now.”

  “Why did Papa go away? Is he angry at me, Mama?”

  “No, treasure, he’s not angry. He didn’t ask to go, but the Jade Emperor called him. Even the former Emperor of the Great Pure Dynasty had to obey, just as all men must obey you on earth because you are the Emperor now.”

  “He obeyed the Jade Emperor, Mama?” The child’s intelligence awakened her pride. “Then he must be happy.”

  “Very happy, though sad to leave us. But you and I will always be together, and I won’t ever scold you again.”

  “Then I’m happy too. But it’s warmer in the palanquin. I want to go to the Forbidden City and sit on the Dragon Throne.”

  The caravan resumed its march ten minutes later. Chair bearers, soldiers, and eunuchs were all eager to find a site for the evening halt, since the rising storm would prevent their reaching Kupeikou, where simple dwellings and rude inns had been cleared to accommodate them. They finally camped just before dusk. The temporal and spiritual authority of the world’s largest empire resided temporarily in a rivulet-scored ravine between steep cliffs twenty-three miles north of the Great Wall.

  The colored tents with silken linings rose in Imperial splendor against the scarred rock. Each Dowager’s pavilion was divided into a reception chamber, a sleeping chamber, and quarters for her attendants. Prince Yee and Prince Cheng
also occupied their own pavilions, the Lord Protector’s only slightly smaller than the Dowagers’.

  The most magnificent, as large and as many-chambered as a villa, was erected in the center of the encampment, the Emperor’s personal standard flying from a scarlet pole before its entrance. But the sentinels in the sodden blue-and-scarlet dress uniform of the Imperial Guard kept their vigil over an Imperial Traveling Palace devoid of its chief occupant. The drowsy five-year-old hailed as the Son of Heaven was put to bed in an alcove adjoining his mother’s sleeping chamber.

  A detachment of the Imperial Guard patrolled one segment of the loose perimeter and Prince Yee’s clan troops the rest. The wind shrieking through the ravine hurled spears of rain to pierce the soldiers’ oiled-canvas cloaks. They swore at the rigidity of their officers and the inflexibility of Dynastic Law, which kept them at their posts for no reason. Neither moonlight nor starlight penetrated the murky clouds. In the pitch-darkness, where sentries stationed at ten-foot intervals could not see each other, no enemy could possibly mount an attack. Not even the rapacious brigands of the mountains would stir in this filthy weather.

  The wailing of the wind and the drumming of the rain drowned the normal noises of the night. Within her pavilion Yehenala did not hear the creaking of trees and the cries of animals. Only the awful roar of the boulders that broke from the cliff face to thunder down on the encampment rose above the clamor of the gale. When the wind abated momentarily, as if crouching for the next assault, the silence was eerie and terrifying.

  Yehenala sat on a folding chair in her bedchamber, warming her hands over the charcoal brazier whose glow lit the orange silk walls. She was happy to gather her thoughts in solitude before retiring to the bed invitingly spread with an old-rose counterpane. She had removed her sodden clothes, washed in the tepid water the serving maids brought from the kitchen tent, and slipped a quilted silk robe over her nakedness. When the wailing wind and drumming rain briefly gave way to silence, she whispered a prayer to Kwan Yin, the goddess of mercy. She was still fearful, though the fury of Heaven had left the camp unscathed and she knew no human enemy could strike on such a night.

  Her prayer froze on her lips, which were soft and vulnerable without their normal pigment. The clashing of swords rang in her ears, though muffled by the double tent, and a ragged volley of musket shots echoed through the ravine. Swords clattered again before the tumult of the storm drowned all other sounds.

  Tensely upright, Yehenala waited for her attendants to report to her. Even at a moment like this, particularly at a moment like this, she could not impair her dignity by sending for news.

  After waiting for some minutes, she rose. Her Imperial dignity required a pretense of aloof unconcern, but her nerves were strung tight. Forcing herself to walk slowly on the Samarkand carpet spread over the plank floor, she grasped the curtain barring the corridor to the reception chamber. The curtain parted of itself, and she saw Little An.

  “A visitor, Highness.” The agitated eunuch forgot her new title. “A visitor demands to see you.”

  “Demands?” she asked. “Who dares to demand to see the Empress Dowager?”

  “The Baronet Jung Lu, colonel of the Peking Field Force. He’s most insistent, Majesty.”

  “I know who Jung Lu is, you fool. Don’t keep him waiting. Show him in.”

  The Baronet Jung Lu swaggered in, his sodden tunic slit by a sword stroke. As he handed his dripping cape to Little An, Yehenala saw that his normally ruddy cheeks were pale in the brazier’s glow. After Little An offered a towel and withdrew, Jung Lu dropped to his knees.

  “Majesty,” he said, “I …”

  “Get up, you idiot,” she commanded fondly. “Come and sit beside the brazier. You look exhausted and … but you’re not hurt?”

  “No, Majesty.” He sat on a second folding chair. “Only my tunic, and it can be patched.”

  “Tell me why you’re here!” she commanded. “I thought I heard shots.”

  “Your Majesty did.”

  “Not Majesty, Jung. Tonight call me Nala and say you. Call me Nala again—for the last time.”

  “Nala! I’ve dreamed of saying Nala again. You know I’ve yearned to.”

  “You are a young idiot. You must not talk so. But, if you must, tell me later about your yearning. First tell me what’s happened.”

  “You’re quite safe now, Nala. Your sister’s husband, Prince Chun, and I watched carefully as instructed. The troops of the Assistant Grand Chancellor, somehow their number dwindled. Prince Chun commanded me to ride after them with my own men. That’s about all, Nala, my love.”

  “Later, Jung, later!” Yehenala realized that her command was also an implicit promise. “First finish your story.”

  “Brigands,” he said wearily. “Su Shun’s troops were disguised as brigands to kill you. We fell on their rear as Prince Yee’s clansmen were withdrawing before their attack. A little sword play, a few volleys—and they broke. You’re safe now. I ride with you to Peking. Since Prince Kung commanded me to protect the Emperor, no one can challenge my right—not with your assent.”

  “Given gladly, Jung, gladly. I not only assent, but command you to accompany me.”

  A glow suffused his lean face at that covert invitation, for she did not wish to retract her implicit promise. She was destined always to take the initiative, it seemed, earlier because of the Emperor’s jaded appetites, now because of her rank. She stretched out her hand and tentatively touched his shoulder.

  “Nala, I’ve dreamed …” His voice was hoarse. “For years … a decade … I’ve dreamed …”

  “Be quiet, idiot,” she said softly. “Just be quiet.”

  He could not make the first move. But he took her like a man. Impatient and rough, then tender and gentle, he forced the pace—and she yielded to his ardor. Later, she drowsily measured his urgency against the Emperor’s quiescence, which had required her to play the man’s role. For the first time, Yehenala surrendered her will to a man—and, afterward, she was languidly content.

  “We’ll be together always, won’t we?” she whispered, her head resting in the crook of his arm. “We’ll never part, my darling.”

  “As you wish, Nala. It’s not for me to say. But by Heaven, if they behead me tomorrow, my life will have been crowned.”

  “No one will behead you, Jung,” she said, laughing. “And we shall be together always.”

  She brushed his cheek with her lips and embraced him fiercely. If she triumphed, they would often be together. But, she knew with a sudden chill, she would always be alone in her eminence.

  CHAPTER 45

  November 1, 1861

  PEKING

  The light that drenched the Northern Capital on the morning of November 1, 1861, was as hard and brilliant as diamonds. The awful clarity subtly distorted the vision of men accustomed to seeing their city through a haze of ochre dust and black soot. As the Imperial Procession approached, the golden roofs of the Gate of Western Justice appeared to transfix the blue arch of the sky and to cradle the wan crescent moon in their upswept eaves. Beneath their crimson cloak of maples, the Fragrant Hills fifteen miles distant appeared within arm’s reach.

  The five-year-old Emperor, resplendently uncomfortable in a stiff Imperial-yellow tribute-silk robe embroidered with golden Imperial Dragons, sat beside his mother on the yellow cushions of the foremost gilded palanquin. Imperial-yellow pennants whipping in the brisk breeze, the mile-long procession moved in an aureate glow. Mounted drummers evoked roars from the kettledrums hanging beside their saddles, and conch shells rumbled beneath the pealing of long brass horns. The ancient Manchu instruments heralded the advent of the child-Emperor as they had the six-year-old Shun Chih Emperor, the first of his line to enter Peking, exactly 217 years earlier to the day.

  Like Yehenala, the senior Empress Dowager Niuhura avoided looking at the immense black scar that disfigured the earth where the Summer Palaces had gleamed little more than a year ago. But she saw the glance the junior
Empress Dowager exchanged with the Baronet Jung Lu, who commanded their escort. As he rode beside the Imperial palanquin, his eyes dwelt on the petite figure framed by the open curtains. No man, Niuhura reflected sadly, had ever looked at her as the slim officer with the reckless mouth looked at Yehenala. For an instant, Yehenala’s eyes softened in response. An instant later, they flashed cold in dismissal and, perhaps, in warning.

  Jung Lu’s mouth hardened. He slapped his horse’s neck and cantered to the head of his cavalry to return the salute of the infantrymen palisading the road. Their scarlet helmets gleamed, and the yung, brave, ideograms on their chests rippled as they raised their halberds.

  A blue-striped marquee almost an acre in expanse had been erected before the Gate of Western Justice against the volatile weather. Propitiously, only a few benevolent clouds drifted above the city, though the wind snapped the cavalcade’s pennants and whipped the slender flagpoles before the marquee. Above the clashing cymbals and the booming gongs, a vast throng shouted: “Huang-ti wan sui! … Imperial Majesty, live ten thousand years!”

  The child-Emperor had come home to Imperial Peking. For the first time, he was received in his Northern Capital with the acclamation reserved for the Son of Heaven: “Huang-ti wan-wan sui! … Your Majesty, ten thousand times ten thousand years!”

  A tall man with a square face stood before the ranks of Princes, Chancellors, Ministers, Censors, and Senior Mandarins assembled to welcome their new sovereign into his inheritance. Like all the officials, Prince Kung’s robe of ceremony was covered by a somber surcoat, which revealed only its hoof-shaped cuffs and the wave pattern on its skirts. Later, the grandees would put on white mourning clothes to show their grief for the former Emperor. They now wore Court regalia to welcome the Chi Hsiang Emperor, the eighth of his line to rule the Great Empire.

  Followed by five Princes, Chancellors, and Censors, Prince Kung walked slowly through the crystalline morning toward the palanquin bearing the Emperor and his mother, the junior Empress Dowager. The prince sank to his knees to perform the kowtow, the three-fold prostration rendered only to Heaven and to Heaven’s representative on earth, the Lord of Ten Thousand Years.