China

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “Fire away.”

  “Fargo says that all this trouble with the Chinese is our fault because we sold them opium, which makes people sick. Is that true?”

  “Well…” Trader hesitated. “It wasn’t as simple as that. They had their own opium, you know. But it’s true they bought quite a bit of opium from us. Trouble was, we wanted to sell them all sorts of things—cotton goods, manufactured things—but the only thing the Chinese people wanted was opium.”

  “Is opium bad for you?”

  “It’s like a lot of things, I suppose. It’s a medicine, actually. And people here liked to smoke a bit, the same way we might take a glass of brandy. But if you smoke too much, then you can get a craving for it and that can make you sick. Same with drinking brandy, come to that.” He nodded wisely. “Moderation in all things, Tom. Moderation. That’s the secret of life.”

  “Mother says that the Chinese kept everybody out, including the missionaries, and that they’d still like to.”

  “That’s true as well. Sometimes a country can keep itself cut off from the outside world for centuries. But then one day the world will come knocking at the door, and something has to change. That’s what happened with Japan. There was no opium involved there at all.”

  “So it was the Chinese who were in the wrong then, and we were in the right?”

  “I wouldn’t put it that way. In practice, you’ll find as you go through life, it’s really all about how you manage things.”

  “Oh.” Tom looked a bit doubtful. Then a new idea seemed to strike him. “Grandfather.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you had your life again, would you go to China and sell opium?”

  Trader was silent. He thought about Canton and then Macao, but not for long. Then his mind went back to Calcutta.

  “I daresay,” he said, “I’d have stayed in India.” He nodded slowly, then smiled at his grandson. “That’s where I met your dear grandmother, you know,” he added. The statement was perfectly true, in its way.

  “So if you’d stayed in India, what would you have done?”

  “I expect I’d have been dealing in tea. That’s the business I’d be in nowadays. My son, your uncle, is in that business, as a matter of fact. Indian tea. But there wasn’t any then, you see.”

  “If you hadn’t sold opium, would anybody else have?”

  “Oh, some people would have. No doubt about that.” Trader paused. “It’s all a question of time, you see,” he offered. “It’s a question of what you can do, and what you can’t do, and when you can do it.” The boy still looked puzzled. “Now,” said Trader, “you come along with me.”

  He got up, not without discomfort, and made his way stiffly across the lawn. Taking his ebony stick, he pushed the ferrule into the turf so that the stick stood upright. “We’ll say that’s the wicket,” he said. “I want you to throw the ball so that it bounces once and passes just over the top of the stick.”

  And for half an hour he watched as Tom threw the ball—which he did with remarkable accuracy—went and picked it up, then threw it again and again, which was good exercise for the boy, and stopped him from asking any more questions.

  * * *

  —

  As July merged into August, the days passed slowly. For Trader, it was a strange, almost unreal time.

  The truce held, but it seemed uneasy. Everybody repaired their defenses. He noticed, however, that on the eastern side of the legation, beyond the Fu, the Chinese soldiers patched up their barricades without much conviction; whereas on the western side, beyond the Mongol market, the imperial soldiers were busy strengthening their redoubts as though they expected fighting to break out any day, and their surly looks suggested that they’d be glad if it did.

  Did this reflect the two different factions within the Forbidden City? Perhaps.

  They had definite news of the relief force now. It was making its way up the canal towards the city. But the soldiers brought cannon, and they were short of boats, so the going was slow. All the same, they’d be there in a week, ten days at most.

  The main problem was food. The Tsungli Yamen might send baskets of fruit, small traders came across the open ground with eggs and chickens; but supplies of basic food inside the legations were beginning to dwindle.

  “We’ve just got to keep body and soul together until they arrive,” Emily remarked.

  Because they were bored, people were starting to take a few potshots across the barriers. Nothing too much, Trader thought.

  * * *

  —

  It was a sunny morning in August when he and Tom decided to go for a walk together. “We’ll make an inspection of the defenses,” he told Emily with a smile.

  “Be careful,” she warned.

  “Of course we will,” he answered.

  Trader was feeling rather pleased with himself that day. Though he was still walking with the ebony cane, his leg seemed to be better. He could almost put his full weight on it. As they set off, he noticed with amusement that, as usual, his grandson had his cricket ball in his pocket. “We won’t be playing any cricket, you know,” he remarked. But when this failed to elicit any response, he smiled indulgently, told himself it really didn’t matter anyway, and led the way towards their first objective.

  He took care as he mounted the stone steps up to the broad parapet of the city wall. He didn’t want to trip and fall as he had so recently before. But he made it easily enough; and if he winced once or twice, Tom didn’t see.

  They admired the views for a few minutes. After that, they made their way back into the British legation and walked through the grounds until they reached the northern end. The wall between the legation and the burned-out Chinese library had been thickly reinforced from the legation side since the truce began. “They’ll have a job to get through that,” Trader remarked, “if they try again.”

  Indeed, the space they were standing in had almost become like a peaceful walled garden, he thought, and they were just about to move on when Tom pulled at his sleeve. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “did you hear that?”

  “What?” For a man of his age Trader had good hearing, but he had to confess: “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  Tom stood still, concentrating, while his grandfather waited. “It’s very faint. It’s underground. Like scraping.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Tom nodded.

  “Damn,” said Trader. “They must be mining. So much for the truce.”

  “Should we report it, Grandfather?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll tell MacDonald as soon as we get back.”

  And they might have gone straight to the residence except that, as they returned along the western wall of the legation, they met a soldier carrying a small chicken.

  “Where did you get that?” Trader inquired.

  “The Mongol market. There’s a few stalls open today.”

  “Oh, Grandfather, let’s get something for Mother,” cried Tom.

  “I don’t know,” Trader replied. “We’re not supposed to do that. The food committee’s asked everyone to pool their food until the siege is over.”

  “Maybe just some eggs?” suggested Tom.

  Trader said nothing. But they went to the little alley that gave access to the Mongol market and looked in.

  There were only half a dozen stalls clustered in the middle of the little square. The broad, weather-beaten faces of the Mongol traders looked strangely incurious, as if to say: “We belong to the steppe. Your quarrels have nothing to do with us.” They appeared to be selling eggs, chickens, sweetmeats of some kind, nothing very appetizing. But it was food.

  Trader’s eyes searched the low buildings on the far side of the market. Could there be snipers hidden there? The man with the chicken hadn’t mentioned any trouble. Trader just wished there were some other peo
ple in the place.

  An old Mongol woman caught sight of them. Picking up a basket, she came across, tilting the basket to show them the eggs it contained. She stopped a few feet away and indicated that, if they would follow her, she could show them other, better things. Back at the stall a middle-aged man, her son perhaps, held up a scrawny chicken by its neck, while it feebly flapped its wings. He beckoned, and the old woman motioned to them to walk beside her, as though she could provide a safe conduct to the stall.

  Tom looked up eagerly. “Can’t we go, Grandfather?” he begged.

  “I suppose so,” Trader muttered.

  So they made their way across the empty marketplace and reached the stall. They looked at the scrawny chickens and the other goods on offer.

  The Mongol was inspecting Trader with interest. It seemed he had correctly concluded that this tall figure with his ebony cane and black eye patch must be a rich man. For suddenly he seized the basket of eggs, stuffed three live chickens into an open wooden box, and presented them to Trader with a simple word: “Yuan.”

  “Yuan? You want a yuan for this?” Trader exclaimed in astonishment. Then he laughed. In its most recent efforts to strengthen its economy, the Chinese government had issued this new and valuable silver coin. Trader held up the fingers of one hand. “Five fen,” he said. Five cents. A twentieth of a yuan. And a good price at that, even in wartime.

  The Mongol looked disappointed, offered half a dozen eggs instead, and indicated this was what five fen would buy. Trader shook his head and pointed to a chicken that would need to be added. He gave Tom a quick glance as though to say: Observe the gentle art of bargaining. The Mongol considered. But whether he would have accepted the offer they never discovered. For suddenly he stared over Tom’s head at something behind the boy. And Trader turned.

  The man was dressed in red. A Boxer, obviously. He was crouched in a kung fu tiger stance, with a light jian sword in his hand, and he had positioned himself directly between Trader and the alley through which they’d entered the market, so that there was no escape.

  Where the devil had he sprung from? He must have slipped over one of the barriers. And how did he come to be in that part of the city at all? The Boxers had all been withdrawn.

  Maintaining his crouch, the Boxer began to come closer. Trader shot a glance back at the Mongols, but they were watching impassively. Clearly they weren’t going to interfere.

  There was only one thing to do. Keeping his eyes on the Boxer, he called softly to Tom. “Stay behind me until I give the word. The moment I do, run for the alley. You understand? Don’t ask any questions. Do exactly as I say. All right?”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  “Good.” Trader began to move slowly towards the Boxer, raising his ebony stick as he did so. It had been a long time since he’d done any fencing, but he should be able to keep the fellow occupied for a few moments. Long enough for the boy to escape. And if he was going to die, as he supposed he probably was, it wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

  Of course, he might be lucky. If he could just poke the point of his stick into the fellow’s eye, he and Tom might both get away. “So, my red friend,” he muttered, “let’s find out how good a swordsman you are.”

  He was en garde now, edging forward, the point of his stick up, always on target. “Get ready, boy,” he called to Tom. Then he made a feint.

  The Boxer was deceived, swung at the stick that was not there, left himself open, and quick as a flash, Trader lunged.

  Except that he did not. He’d overestimated the strength of his leg. The ankle gave way, his leg collapsed, and before he even knew what was happening, he fell facedown. Looking up helplessly, he saw the Boxer smile and raise his sword.

  “Run, Tom,” he shouted. “Run for your life!” He couldn’t see the boy, but he tried to swing at the Boxer’s ankles with his stick, just to keep him in place while Tom got away. He tensed, knowing the Boxer’s sword was coming. Would it be a thrust or slash?

  And then, to his astonishment, he heard a crack like a pistol shot. The Boxer’s body jerked violently, fell backwards, and crashed to the ground like a man knocked clean unconscious.

  Turning his head, he saw young Tom, with a look of triumph, already at his side and trying to help him up. “What happened?” he mumbled.

  “I got him with my cricket ball,” Tom cried. “Right between the eyes!”

  “By Jove, so you did.” Trader was up on one knee now. He could see that the unconscious man’s sword was lying on the ground beside him. The Boxer emitted a low groan. “Grab his sword, Tom, quick, before he comes round!” he ordered.

  Tom did so and brandished the sword in his hand. The Boxer was dazed, but coming to, struggling to get up.

  “Shall I kill him, Grandfather?” Tom cried eagerly. “I can chop his head. Easy.” He was beside himself with excitement.

  “Not now. Keep the sword and help me up.”

  A moment later, with one arm around Tom’s shoulders, he was hobbling towards the alley. The Boxer had managed to stand up groggily, but then fallen down again. They got to the alley and made their escape.

  “I wish you’d let me kill him, Grandfather,” said Tom.

  “I know, my boy,” said Trader. “But your mother wouldn’t have liked it.”

  They were safely inside the legation and making their way towards the residence when Tom suddenly let out a schoolboy curse.

  “What’s the matter?” asked his grandfather.

  “I left my cricket ball in the market. Can I go back for it?”

  “No,” said Trader. “I’m afraid you cannot.”

  * * *

  —

  When they reached the residence, they found both Emily and Henry at home. Their story was quickly told. Though delighted to have them both back alive, Emily looked at her father a little reproachfully.

  “What were you doing in the Mongol market?” she wanted to know.

  “We were buying chicken and eggs,” said Tom. “For you.”

  “I see,” said Emily, staring at him. “Well, I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “I shouldn’t have gone in there,” Trader said with shame. “And Tom saved my life by throwing that cricket ball in his face.”

  “He’s got a powerful throw,” said Henry.

  “Yes.” Trader nodded slowly. “Runs in our family.”

  “Does it?” said Emily.

  “I threw something at somebody once. Old story from long ago. I’ll tell you some other time.”

  “Well, I’m very proud of you, Tom, for saving your grandfather’s life,” said Henry firmly.

  Tom beamed. “Before that, we were up by the old Chinese library wall,” he went on. “And we heard something Grandfather says we have to tell Sir Claude right away.”

  As he was speaking, there was a tap at the door and the head of that worthy gentleman himself appeared. “Is my name being taken in vain?” MacDonald inquired with a smile.

  “We heard something you should know about,” said Trader. “At least I didn’t hear it, but young Tom here’s got sharper ears. Tell Sir Claude what you heard, Tom.”

  So Tom described the scraping sound underground, and MacDonald nodded and said it probably meant the Chinese were mining again, and Trader said he’d thought so, too.

  “Well done,” said MacDonald to Tom. “By the way, the reason I came to your quarters was because a certain item has just been thrown over the legation wall from the Mongol market. I had a feeling it might be yours.” And to the boy’s delight, the minister handed him his cricket ball. “Very sporting of those Mongols, I must say,” MacDonald remarked. “Perhaps we should teach them to play cricket.”

  * * *

  —

  The next morning MacDonald met Trader by the front door. “I’ve got three men up by the old Chinese library. Also one of the infirm
ary doctors laid a sounding board on the ground and is listening with a stethoscope. Rather ingenious, I thought.

  “I’ve a favor to ask now,” the minister went on briskly. “I need to borrow Henry’s telescope. Something’s come up.”

  He returned at noon, looking serious. “You were right. They’re mining under the old library. Now we’re trying to find out where else they may be burrowing. But there’s another piece of news. Not good. I’ve been up on the wall with Henry’s telescope. Troops with new banners have arrived in Peking. I could see them clearly. So it seems that one of the governors, at least, has answered Cixi’s call for extra troops. But there’s more. The Boxers are back as well. A lot of them.”

  “That’s why that damned fellow showed up in the Mongol market then,” said Trader.

  “Evidently. The latest report is that our own relief force is about five days away. But frankly, I’ve given up placing any reliance on these messages. I suppose Cixi must know where they are, but I don’t. So the question is, will the moderates in the Forbidden City or the militants prevail? If the latter, we have to expect another big attack any day.”

  * * *

  —

  What irony, Trader thought. If all the efforts that had been made, the fighting, the hunger, the sickness and sacrifice—his own poor attempts to bolster Henry’s faith, young Tom’s saving his own life—if all these things had been for nothing. The relief force would arrive only to find that every soul in the legations—soldiers, women, children, and converts alike—had all been slaughtered, every one, perhaps only hours before they got there.

  He didn’t share his thought, of course. No point in doing that. He hobbled about trying to look cheerful and thought he’d succeeded pretty well until Emily came up to him one day, put her arm through his, and said, “Poor Father. You look so sad.”

  “No,” he assured her. “Just this damned leg giving me a bit of gyp, that’s all.”

  She squeezed his arm, though whether she believed him was another matter.