“Never again,” his brother-in-law declared. “This has got to stop. But it was funny.”
“Funny?” the Englishman asked dully. “What’s happened?”
“The older one worried me. He was close to guessing, though he’d never smelled opium in his life.”
“How did you get rid of them, Aaron?”
“The Holy Soldiers are all incorruptible, of course.”
“Of course!” Lionel echoed the ironic observation. “Beyond doubt!”
“The silk I offered them. They wanted to grab it and get out before the Chief Lictor arrived.”
“The Chief Lictor?” Lionel was again fearful. “He’s coming, too?”
“Not really, but they didn’t know that. Lionel, next time I won’t protect you. I’ve put up with your foolishness for Fronah’s sake. But you’ve got to stop.”
“I’ll try, Aaron, really.”
“Trying is not good enough. The Taipings are getting worse all the time. The more desperate they are, the more fanatical they become.”
“Desperate? Why, the Heavenly Kingdom still holds most of the east coast, not to speak of the entire South. Perhaps Shanghai won’t fall now, not with all that foreign support. But we can still win without taking Shanghai.”
“Lionel, the pressure on Nanking is growing every day. Unless the Loyal King can break that siege, it’s only a matter of time before the Heavenly Capital falls. And you know how vulnerable Soochow is.”
“What do you want to do? Make a break?”
“Into the hands of the Imps? They’d lop off my head in a minute. The game’s not played out yet. The Taipings still have a small chance. But I’m worried. You’ve got to stop your little games. If they catch you, don’t look to me for help. I’ll be busy saving my own head.”
“I will. I’ll give both up … the smoke and the little darlings. From this day on, I won’t touch either one.”
Aaron looked dubiously at the tall Englishman, who was again marked by his addiction. The gray skin was taut over his patrician features, since opium was destroying his desire for food. Soon his emaciation would proclaim his vice to anyone less obtuse than the country bumpkins he had just barely deceived.
Lionel would try, Aaron concluded, for he felt that his friend was at heart, despite his compulsive vices, an honorable man. Still, it was hard to believe he could succeed in throwing off his addictions a second time.
CHAPTER 57
February 3, 1863
THE FOREIGN SETTLEMENT
Dr. William MacGregor gazed wearily across the simple drawing room of his small house beside the hospital erratically financed by the London Missionary Society. As usual, his wife had recalled him to the obligations they owed their friends and neighbors—in addition to the Chinese patients who virtually monopolized his time and energy. Though her Christian conscience forbade her to begrudge the further time he now gave to his small patients in Fronah Haleevie Henriques’s children’s home, Margaret was troubled by his fatigue. She was also troubled by Fronah’s obsessive devotion to the heavy responsibilities she had so impetuously assumed. A small birthday party for that young woman who was twenty-four years old on February 3, 1863, Margaret had suggested, would take both Fronah and her fervent champion William out of themselves.
Though Fronah was finely drawn, the physician reflected, she had spontaneously recovered from the anorexy that so long worried him, not least because he was powerless to cure that malady. Less than four months after the mob’s attack had galvanized her resolution, Fronah’s eyes sparkled and her smile flashed as she sipped the hock he had opened for the occasion. She even flirted discreetly with two young officers of the Welsh Guards who were passing through Shanghai on an extended world tour. As much as her physical charms, her vivacity obviously drew them to her.
William MacGregor smiled to himself when old Malcolm Wheatley, taipan of Derwents, was drawn into the circle around Fronah. After a cursory glance, Nicole Wheatley, almost three decades younger than her husband, resumed her animated conversation with the Italian consul, who was her acknowledged lover. Although the young Jewish woman was strikingly attractive in an emerald-green dress, which set off her triple strand of black Caspian pearls, the Frenchwoman was not disturbed by her husband’s gravitating toward Fronah. Just as everyone knew that the Italian was Nicole’s cavalier, everyone knew that Fronah was not interested in husbands—either her own runaway husband or anyone else’s. Nor, for that matter, was Fronah interested in men at all. She was totally absorbed by the hundreds of Chinese orphans whose care she had undertaken.
“You’re looking beautiful, my dear,” Malcolm Wheatley observed with the hearty gallantry that was a taipan’s prerogative. “So much better than a few months ago. Prettiest girl in the Settlement, I always say. Must madden the young bloods that none can get a special smile from you. Almost maddens an old gaffer like meself.”
“You’re too kind, sir,” Fronah parried automatically. “I am a married woman, you know.”
“Oh, that!” Wheatley was embarrassed by her reference to her vanished husband. “I suppose you are, at that. Damned shame, that. Terrible waste of a lovely lady.”
“I’m not quite wasting my time, you know,” she flared. “There are other things than husbands … my children’s home for one.”
“I suppose it keeps you out of mischief. Must be damnably unpleasant, though, all those unwashed Chink bairns.”
“Hardly unpleasant, Mr. Wheatley. Rather the contrary. And it’s not just busywork. Anything but.”
“Ah well, let’s talk of other things. I imagine …”
“If you don’t mind terribly, I’d like to talk about the children,” Fronah interjected. “They’re all well washed … and learning English as well as Chinese. Some day the boys will be invaluable to firms like Derwents. Just think of sending dozens of young Chinese men, many with equally intelligent wives, to drum up trade in the interior.”
“A novel thought, my dear Fronah,” Malcolm Wheatley responded warily, disquieted by her enthusiasm and suspicious of her purpose. “But, of course, quite impractical.”
“How can you say impractical?” She smiled beguilingly. “Just think of the great future advantages Derwents will reap from a small investment now.”
“Investment? What can you mean? We weren’t talking of investments. But you must pardon me. I want a word with Willie MacGregor.”
“You won’t desert me just yet, will you, Mr. Wheatley?” She laid her hand on his arm. “I want a few more words with you.”
“How can I resist a beautiful lady?” Malcolm Wheatley yielded uneasily. “But ladies shouldn’t trouble themselves with dreary business matters.”
“This one does, sir. Now Jardines and Russells have subscribed generously to the children’s home. You wouldn’t want them to steal a march on Derwents, would you?”
“What are you about, young lady? Auctioning off the future services of your proteges?”
“Of course not,” she said, smiling. “How could you possibly think that? But natural gratitude will impel them to offer their services to those who’ve shown an interest—a concrete interest—in their welfare. You do see, don’t you?”
“By concrete, I suppose you mean hard cash.” Malcolm Wheatley guffawed despite his resentment at being outmaneuvered. “I do see that I’m being blackmailed. How much?”
“Not a great deal, Mr. Wheatley. My father, who contributes generously, has always advised against spoiling the market by asking too much. Shall we say fifty taels?”
“That’s sensible, Fronah,” Wheatley agreed with relief. “A realistic sum after all. I’ll arrange with my bookkeeper to credit …”
“… a month,” she continued. “Fifty taels a month will feed and educate ten orphans. And, of course, an additional fifty at Chinese New Year, as is the custom.”
“Damn it, Fronah, you are blackmailing me. I don’t see how Derwents can …”
“You’ve already given your word, sir,” she insist
ed. “I promise you someday soon you’ll find you’ve done a fine stroke of business today. Now do have your chat with Willie.”
“Should never talk business with a lady,” Malcolm Wheatley grumbled lightly, amused despite his discomfiture. “Particularly not old Saul Haleevie’s daughter.”
“Even a canny Scot like you can’t resist her.” William MacGregor laughed, drawing Malcolm Wheatley away. “She’s taken more than capital from me, and I’m reckoned a pretty canny Scot myself. She’s managed to squeeze twenty-six hours a day out of me.”
“It may not be ladylike,” Wheatley observed, “but she is impossibly persuasive. I gather she’s even winkled contributions out of the Chinese Money-shop Guild.”
“They’re banking credits with the Lord Buddha,” the physician agreed. “Even the Chinese find it easier to give in than to resist her.”
Invited by Margaret MacGregor’s nod, Fronah strolled toward the chintz-covered sofa where the red-haired Scotswoman was chatting with Lavinia Ponsonby, the doyenne of the London Missionary Society.
“… don’t like it at all, Maggie,” the rotund spinster was whispering vehemently. “It’s hard enough for us now. I can’t understand why the good Lord allows the Hebrews to raise new obstacles in our path … the only path to salvation for the Chinese.”
“Perhaps competition is good for our souls, Lavinia.” Margaret smiled. “Though she insists she’s not in competition. Why don’t you discuss it with her yourself?”
“I’ll do that, Maggie.” Lavinia Ponsonby agreed fiercely and addressed Fronah: “Young lady, I’d like a word with you.”
“Of course, Miss Ponsonby.” Fronah ignored the overheard exchange. “How can I assist you?”
“Why are you stealing souls from us, Mrs. Henriques?” Lavinia Ponsonby demanded. “Certainly the London Missionary Society cares adequately for the orphans of Shanghai. I must, quite candidly, say that I resent your proselytizing for the Hebrew religion.”
“As to how adequately your mission cares for the orphans, that’s a matter of opinion,” Fronah replied evenly. “However, I am not proselytizing, not at all.”
“Come now, Mrs. Henriques, you don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?” the spinster demanded. “I’ve told Dr. MacGregor he’s a fool to help you lure souls away from the only true path to salvation.”
“So I understand, Miss Ponsonby.” Fronah’s equable tone did not alter, though an angry flush mantled her cheekbones. “But, I assure you, I’m not concerned with the children’s souls.”
“Tommyrot!” Lavinia Ponsonby snorted. “Why else should you …”
“I’m concerned with their bodies and their minds, not their souls,” Fronah riposted. “Their souls will take care of themselves. In any event, Judaism isn’t a proselytizing religion.”
“Now that’s too much, young lady. I can see no other reason …”
“Perhaps you can’t, but, believe me, others can.” Fronah suppressed her indignation. “Quite candidly, though it may sound strange to you, I believe we … we outsiders … owe a debt to China for welcoming us. I’m honoring that debt in my own way.”
“It does sound strange, young lady, utterly strange and, as candidly, quite unbelievable. I’ll see that you’re stopped. I warn you, those children of yours will be damned … their souls condemned.”
“It’s you who’ll be damned, eternally damned, if you interfere with my assisting those in need.” Fronah’s tone was as hard as her words. “God instructs us to succor the less fortunate. Do think about it, Miss Ponsonby.”
“Now, ladies,” Margaret MacGregor interposed, “I’m sure that neither one of you means what she’s said. Surely …”
“I do, Maggie, I promise you,” Fronah replied quietly. “Every word.”
Margaret MacGregor was mute, stricken by the despair of a hostess who contemplates a social debacle. Fronah smiled and added: “However, Miss Ponsonby, I’m sure that Christian charity will prevail in your heart.”
Leaving the stout female missionary sputtering, speechless, double chins quivering, Fronah turned to the two subalterns of the Welsh Guards, who had smiled broadly while shamelessly listening to the tense conversation. As she resumed their previous discussion of Manchu generals’ extraordinary reliance upon gongs and firecrackers to frighten their enemies, she reflected that the inevitable reports of her angry interchange with the doyenne of the Protestant missionaries would do her no harm with the taipans upon whom she relied to support her children’s home. Those practical men of business deeply resented the missionaries’ assumption that they alone possessed absolute virtue and wisdom.
CHAPTER 58
June 3, 1863
SHANGHAI
“Look sharp now, young fellow!” Russells’ senior tea taster exclaimed. “That doesn’t happen every day. You can tell your grandchildren you saw a Mandarin of the First Grade, the boss of the richest province in the Manchu Empire, carried in state through the Foreign Settlement.”
The tea taster was happy to break into the newcomer’s account of the bloody but inconclusive clashes between the Union and the Confederacy in the first mass war ever fought entirely with modern weapons. The conflict touched him directly, for his country’s future was the stake, and Confederate commerce raiders were cutting sharply into the China trade. Nonetheless, the latest griffin had repeatedly regaled a bored mess with his secondhand reports. The tea taster wanted to enjoy the late afternoon sunshine on Broadway, rather than listen again to tales that grew more lurid with each telling.
Besides, such news was many months old when it finally reached Shanghai, and the battlefields were far away. The Mandarin Li Hung-chang, Governor of Kiangsu Province and Commander-in-Chief of the Army of Huai, had, however, just returned from the battlefields of a civil war that lapped at the boundaries of the treaty port.
Impelled by curiosity shortly after his own arrival, the tea taster had visited the South City to see the Mandarin’s palanquin escorted by lictors carrying swords and striped bamboo staves. The banners, the uniforms, and the lanterns had impressed even his Yankee skepticism. It was, however, virtually unprecedented for the Mandarin to visit the Foreign Settlement.
“It’s a small procession, only two flags and a single attendant Mandarin. But it’s well worth seeing, isn’t it?”
“If you say so.” The griffin was determined not to be impressed. “Where’s the grand high panjandrum going?”
“They’re turning up Yuehtung Road,” the Old China Hand mused. “Nothing there except some tenements and … Yes, it must be.”
“Must be what?”
“Be patient, youngster, and all will be revealed. Let’s tag along behind and see where he lights.”
Proper in white drill and straw hats, the Americans followed at a respectable distance. Not for them the crude curiosity of the Chinese, who turned, gawked, and trotted alongside the gubernatorial procession.
“Damned if I wasn’t right!” the Old Hand exclaimed when the litter bearers halted before an unpretentious three-story house. “He’s calling on the Witch of Endor.”
“The Witch of Endor?” the griffin asked. “You’ve got some comical names out here all right. Who’s the Witch of Endor?”
“Why, that little Jewish girl, old Saul Haleevie’s daughter. They’ve been calling her the Witch of Endor since she began driving everyone crazy begging for the refugees’ kids. Believe it or not, she’s got more than four hundred tucked away in those tenements her father gave her. Old Saul’s no Shylock, I’ll say that for him. Everything else she squeezes out of the taipans.”
“From Whitney Griswold?” The griffin had endured a scarifying interview with his taipan regarding his travel expenses. “That old son of a bitch is the tightest Yankee I ever met. And you know how Yankees are.”
“One myself, young fellow. It’s easier for Griswold than holding out, though she’ll be back to twist his arm again. Everyone kicks in, even the French. And that, young fellow, is a certifiable miracle.”<
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“What does she look like? A typical dumpy, middle-aged do-gooding female?”
“You know, I’ve never seen her. I hear she’s a scrawny little thing, though still a long way from thirty.”
The Mandarin Li Hung-chang stepped from his palanquin, the silver crane of his grade shimmering on the breast of his official robe. The barbarians’ ways, he reflected without rancor, were truly peculiar, while their failure to comprehend the fundamentals of etiquette was extraordinary. Still, he was in a sense their guest today, and he felt little resentment at his hostess’s failing to greet him as he strode toward the open door of the tenement.
“Your Excellency, I am abjectly apologetic.” Fronah hurried into the road and curtsied. “An urgent matter prevented my waiting outside my unworthy dwelling to greet you. Though my offense is unpardonable, I beg your indulgence.”
The Mandarin was astonished by her command of the Officials’ Language. Shanghai sibilants marred her accent, but they were no worse than his own Anhwei burr.
“Young David told me he wouldn’t be needed as an interpreter.” He repaid her Chinese courtesy by using his aide’s foreign name. “I crave your pardon for my skepticism.”
Fronah curtsied again to acknowledge his compliment and motioned him to precede her. But the tall Mandarin stood a few moments longer exchanging courtesies with the small woman.
The two Americans staring across Yuehtung Road saw a slight figure in a plain fawn dress with a restrained hoop skirt. Over the vee of braid on the bodice dangled her only jewelry: a disk of white tsui-fei jade on a fine gold chain. Though Fronah’s face was no longer drawn, her skin was taut over her delicate bones. Her olive cheeks were flushed with excitement, while her light-brown eyes sparkled with discreet amusement at the familiar rituals of Confucian courtesy.
As the door closed, the griffin turned indignantly upon the Old China Hand.
“A scrawny hag, you said!” he exclaimed. “Old fellow, you must be blind. She’s a looker if I ever saw one. She’s only a girl, but, by God, she’s a beauty.”
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