“Be quiet, Ilha,” said her mother. “It’s time to go to bed.”
So the evening ended. Only Guanji was frowning a little.
* * *
—
When Guanji woke at the first hint of dawn, he decided to go for a ride. Nobody else was up. He wanted to think, all by himself.
He was just saddling his horse when his uncle appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and asked, “May I join you?” And although Guanji didn’t really want company, he could hardly refuse.
There was enough light in the eastern sky to see their way as they rode together, enjoying the coolness of the morning and the faint damp breeze coming from the sea. They skirted the walls of Zhapu and started out onto the long spit of land. It was quite empty. The sun had not yet risen out of the blue-grey sea.
“You’ve always liked to ride out here, ever since you were a little boy,” his uncle said at last.
“Yes,” said Guanji absently. “On Wind.”
They rode on awhile before his uncle spoke again. “Ilha’s wrong, you know,” he said. “She thinks I try to decide all the children’s fates. That is not correct. I try to discover what it is they are fated to do. That is quite different.”
Guanji didn’t reply at once. His observant uncle had guessed correctly: Ilha’s words had been on his mind when he’d set out for his ride. Had the older man been waiting for him that morning so that he could talk to him? Probably.
Guanji didn’t question his duty to serve the clan or the obedience he owed his uncle. That wasn’t the problem. But Ilha’s words had sowed a tiny doubt in his mind. Was it possible that his own belief in his destiny, one he’d held since his earliest childhood, was somehow an illusion—a falsehood created, with whatever good intention, by his uncle?
“How did you discover my destiny, Uncle?” he asked finally.
“I considered your horoscope,” his uncle replied. “And the fact that your father was a hero—which he was,” he added quickly. “But what really showed me the way was something else.”
“What was that?”
“The old Manchu who taught you to ride and draw a bow. He was the one.”
“I know he liked me…” Guanji began.
“Oh, it was more than that.” His uncle smiled. “I knew it was my duty to put you on a horse. Your father would have wished me to. But I didn’t know if you’d take to it. I put my own sons on a pony, too, you know. And they liked to ride well enough. But that was all. The old man took no interest in them.”
“And he did with me?”
“After your third lesson, I asked him how it was going. But he would not say. He told me to ask him in a month. So I waited a month and asked him again. And this is what he said: ‘I’ve taught plenty of boys to ride, but never one like this. Boys like this are born, not made. He is a Manchu warrior. It’s not just his talent. It is his spirit. Give me this boy.’ So I did. But I never forced you, Guanji. You loved it. That’s why the old man and his friends adopted you and taught you all their songs. They knew you were one of them.” He paused and nodded. “That’s how I knew it was your destiny.”
“I was certainly happy,” said Guanji.
“I’m annoyed with Ilha. She was foolish. She made a joke about something that is sacred. So if you want the truth about what you are, all I can tell you is to search your own heart. There’s no other way.”
They reached the battery on the knoll. A line of golden light was gleaming along the horizon. They waited and watched in silence as the sun slowly emerged from the sea. Then they wheeled their horses and started back.
“I think I am a Manchu,” Guanji said. “It is what I feel.”
“Very well.” The older man seemed pleased. They rode on a little way. But then his uncle reined in his horse and they both stopped. “And now, Guanji, I have some more news for you to hear.”
“Good or bad?”
“Bad.” His uncle sighed. “But it is time.” He considered a few moments. “You have known only two places in your life so far: Zhapu and Hangzhou. Both towns with garrisons of Manchu bannermen. And while it’s true that most of our bannermen don’t practice horsemanship as they should, our Manchu tradition is respected here.”
“Of course.”
“What you do not know is that, outside Beijing itself, these two towns are almost the only places where that is the case.” He smiled regretfully. “I never told you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The Manchu bannermen are broken, Guanji. In most of China, we’re a laughingstock. Even the emperor has nearly given up on us.”
“But the emperor’s a Manchu. The Manchus rule China.”
“Two hundred years ago,” said his uncle, “when we drove the Ming dynasty from China, a bannerman would say proudly that he was the slave of the emperor. Why was he proud? Because to be the slave of the emperor was to be above all other men.” He nodded. “Our garrisons, all over China, were to remind the Han that we were in charge. Bannermen were well paid—the silver stipend, the rice allowance, and all sorts of other benefits besides. And we weren’t allowed to engage in menial trades that were beneath a Manchu. We held our heads high. But then something happened.”
“What?”
“The march of generations. It took time, of course, but our numbers grew. Revolts, bad harvests, piracy, not to speak of the recent war with the barbarians and their evil opium, put great stress on the treasury. The emperor couldn’t pay so many bannermen. The payments got smaller, and the bannermen still weren’t supposed to take other work. Do you know what happens when you pay men just for existing? They become demoralized. Many forgot how to fight. But they still expected their stipends and their rice. Some even rioted when they didn’t get enough. There are cities where half the bannermen are beggars now—still proud of being Manchus, of course, because they’ve nothing else to be proud of, poor devils. If there’s trouble in one of the provinces, the emperor often uses banners of Han Chinese or even local militias instead of us.”
“Then why do you want me to be a Manchu warrior?”
“Good question. Because it’s your only hope.” His uncle paused. “There are four ways to succeed in China. One, if you’re a Han, is to be a merchant. They’re despised, unless they become so rich they can buy their way into the gentry. In reality I am a small merchant, though we don’t call it that. But I and my sons will never get rich on our little printing press. The second way is to be a mandarin. The exams are very hard, but the rewards can be high. For the Han, there is a third way. That’s to cut your balls off and become a eunuch at the royal court, where the pickings can be excellent.”
“Glad I’m not a Han.” Guanji allowed himself a smile.
“But the fourth is to be a Manchu.”
“Not from what you just said…”
“Wait. There is more to come. Remember: The Mandate of Heaven was granted to the Manchu dynasty. Now put yourself in the emperor’s place. What does it mean to be emperor of China? What must you do?”
“The emperor must perform the ancient sacrifices to the gods to ask for good harvests.”
“Certainly. He is the Son of Heaven. He must also embody the culture of the people he rules: the Han. And for generations our Manchu dynasty has done so. The last emperor could write quite passable Chinese poetry and was proud of his calligraphy. I’ve heard that he even liked to correct the Chinese grammar of the memoranda he received—in red ink, of course! Above all, in order to show that his dynasty continues to hold the Mandate of Heaven, he cannot afford to let the Manchu clans lose face.”
“How does this help me?”
“Precisely because of the poor condition of so many bannermen, he is in desperate need of worthy Manchus. Men who can show both that they are literate Chinese and that they have something more—the ancient Manchu virtues that set us apart from the people we rule.”<
br />
“And that would be me?”
“I could not give you great wealth or high position, Guanji, but because of your own natural talent you have received a Manchu upbringing that is rare. Your father is recorded as a hero. The emperor himself has honored us with an arch. And I have friends amongst the mandarins and scholars who will speak in your support. The emperor will be eager to advance your career.”
“You have done so much.”
“But you yourself can do far more. As the son of a bannerman, in the officers school, you are already in line to become an officer. And even today, an officer gets a handsome salary. Beyond that, Guanji, you should take the provincial exams.”
“I’m not a scholar.”
“You don’t need to be. Remember, you won’t have to compete against the Han Chinese entrants. There is a quota of pass grades reserved for Manchu bannermen. You’ll have to work hard, of course. But I’ll arrange coaching, and you’ll only have to make a modest showing to get through. Once you have the juren provincial degree, the doors of the administration are open to you. There’s really no position you couldn’t reach.”
“So I’m lucky to be a Manchu after all.”
“In this life, Guanji, you must use every advantage you have. In another generation, these privileges may not even exist. Who knows? But now you have to choose. Do you want to finish up a poor Manchu like the rest, or are you ready to fight?”
“I’m ready to fight,” said Guanji.
* * *
—
In the months that followed, he redoubled his efforts at school. He liked the challenge. So far, he realized, everything he’d done had been because he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father, the hero he scarcely remembered. The idea had spurred him on, given him comfort, and brought him joy. But now he saw that his future was no longer a birthright, a natural progression, and that he’d have to fight for survival. His future was his to make—with his uncle’s help, certainly—but his to lose as well.
By the time Guanji was fifteen, he’d discovered what it was to rely upon himself.
And yet it was at this time that a strange new feeling entered Guanji’s life. It would come upon him suddenly, for no reason: a sense that something was missing, though he couldn’t say what it was.
He’d try to shake the mood off, tell himself it was foolish. The things his uncle had said were reasonable and wise. The new realities of his life made sense. Why then should this vexatious little voice intrude itself, asking him: “Is this truly what you want?” Of course it was, he’d answer. But the voice would persist: “What is your life for? Is it only about the wind across the steppe, the whispers of your ancestors, and the emperor’s smile? Or is there something more?” And this Guanji could not answer. He wished that he could talk to Ilha about it. But Ilha was far away in Nanjing.
* * *
—
His teachers were delighted when Guanji and his best friends formed their little group. Their plan was to sing the old zidi songs and to practice archery, and they did it for fun. But they were also assiduous. Guanji was the best archer in the school anyway, but by practicing together on their free afternoons, they all became quite outstanding. As for the songs, the group was soon much in demand at parties in Hangzhou, and they studiously added to their repertoire. When someone laughingly called them the Five Heroes, they immediately adopted the name for their musical group.
But behind their little enterprise there was a more serious intent. They did mean to be heroes. Manchu heroes. The teachers at the school understood this very well, and that was the real reason they were so delighted. Guanji’s class was proving to be, as they say in schools, a very good year. Word of these young idealists even reached the court itself.
But heroes need adventures; warriors need enemies. Who was there for the Five Heroes to fight and vanquish?
The barbarians from the West were not at war with China now. They were bleeding them dry with their reparations, but neither side could afford another conflict with the other. Not yet, anyway.
The only revolt of consequence was that of the Taiping rebels in the south—and that was only sporadic.
The character of these Hakka rebels—the God Worshippers, they were calling themselves now—was quite striking. Shocking, even. They said that the Buddhists and Confucians were idolaters. They’d go into the Buddhist temples and smash every statue in them, however beautiful. “Not only have these criminals no respect for religion and tradition,” his teacher declared to Guanji’s class one day, “but they defy the emperor himself. They’ve stopped shaving their heads and wearing the Manchu pigtail. They leave their hair uncut and grow it long without even combing it, so they look like the wild animals they truly are!”
“We’ll fight them,” said Guanji.
The teacher replied approvingly, “I’m afraid you won’t get the chance. We’ve got them trapped in a town northwest of Guangzhou. I daresay they’ll all be dead in a month.”
During that summer, word came that the Taiping had escaped into the hills and that they were heading north. Forty thousand of them. They’d come to a town and massacred the inhabitants. In July, his teacher proudly announced to the class that Manchu forces had skillfully ambushed the rebels by a river. Ten thousand of them were killed or drowned. A month later, however, news came that the Taiping were still operating, and that the peasants were flocking to them.
“They promise to take from the rich and give to the poor,” the class teacher explained. “They tell the peasants that they’ll set up a Christian kingdom where all the people will be free and happy—except for Manchu people, of course, who will all be killed. They’ll start with the emperor, whom they call a Tartar dog, and replace him with Hong—the Hakka fellow who says he’s the brother of Jesus. He’s already calling himself the True Sovereign of China.”
This sounded like an enemy worth fighting. The Five Heroes went to the school authorities and asked permission to join the army. But it was refused, and the next thing Guanji knew, his uncle had been summoned to the school, where he and the principal informed the five that the emperor himself commanded them to remain at school.
Towards the end of that summer, the Taiping reached a fortified town on the great Yangtze River. But the government troops there were ready for them. A month went by, two months, three. The Taiping couldn’t take the place. Towards the end of the year, the garrison at Hangzhou heard: “The rebels have given up.”
News came slowly, for that section of the Yangtze River was nearly a thousand miles away. All Guanji heard were vague reports of Taiping columns foraging along the Yangtze, dragging boats and barges with them, looking for food.
The Chinese New Year came and went.
So Guanji was surprised to learn that the Taiping had managed to take a modest provincial town along the Yangtze. The rebels had got lucky this time, for the town contained a government treasury with a lot of silver in it. But they were still quite out of the way. The nearest major city was Nanjing, and that was six hundred miles downriver. The next report, a month later, was that they had decided to stay where they were.
* * *
—
It was a morning in late March when Guanji and his uncle went for a ride by the sea again. They’d returned to Zhapu ten days before, but it was nearly time for them to go back to Hangzhou. There were just a few clouds drifting in from the bay, and the air felt damp. As they had before, they rode in silence to the end of the point and waited for the sun to appear.
“I was so proud of you and your friends for wanting to fight,” his uncle said softly after a while. “The emperor said you brought honor to the Suwan Guwalgiya clan.”
Guanji smiled. “Dear uncle, I wish Ilha could hear you.”
“To laugh at me, you mean. I wish she were here, too.”
* * *
—
They rode b
ack quietly together as the sun cast a golden light on the coarse grass. They crossed under the looming walls of the small garrison. Then as they passed the southern gate of Zhapu, a man came running out. “Have you heard the news?” he cried. “A messenger just came from Hangzhou. He’s ridden all night. Nanjing has fallen.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Taiping rebels. They’ve taken it.”
“They’re six hundred miles away from Nanjing.”
“Not anymore. They’ve slaughtered every Manchu in the city. Men, women, children—the lot of them.”
The older man spoke first. “The report may be incorrect.”
“Perhaps Ilha got away,” said Guanji.
* * *
◦
Cecil Whiteparish was only ten miles from Nanjing when the Taiping patrol found him. They clearly thought he was a spy, so they’d brought him through the defensive checkpoints, and now he was in sight of the city gates. In a few minutes those gates would be opening. Whether he got out again remained to be seen.
Six months had passed since the huge Taiping horde had taken the place. They’d streamed down the Yangtze, their troops on the banks, their cannon and supplies in ships and barges collected along the way. Better organized than anyone expected, they covered an astounding six hundred miles in thirty days, taking the great city of Nanjing by surprise.
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