Breaking Bamboo (28 page)

‘Mung Po,’ he said. ‘What of food? Fresh water? When did these men last eat?’

The orderly looked uncomfortable.

‘Sacks of grain have been sent to us, sir. They’re stacked in the infirmary. Dr Du Tun-i told me to touch nothing until he returned.’

‘When will that be?’

‘He said he needed to ask his uncle’s advice, sir, and headed back to Fouzhou. But he left his assistant with strict orders to keep an eye on me.’

Shih stood in the centre of the courtyard, hands hidden by long sleeves, head lowered. Finally, he took off his coat and ordered Chung to hang it on its old peg.

‘Mung Po, inform the Supervising Officer’s assistant that I am in charge here until his master returns.’

For the next six hours Dr Shih’s voice rose above groans and pleas for assistance. First he set aside a corner of the courtyard for cooking fires. Soon a gruel was bubbling and at the smell men cried out desperately. Shih ordered that all available wine jars be breached.

While his assistants went from mouth to mouth with bowls, Shih persuaded a dozen occupants of the neighbouring lodging house to construct canvas canopies over the wounded, paying them with bowls of rice-gruel. Then he marked out each row with numbered paper squares fixed to sticks and broken spear butts. Finally, he drew up a long list of the wounded, noting name and regiment, the nature of their hurt. Above all, he changed the dressings of those most grievously injured, washing wounds in an astringent tincture.

It was dusk when he paused to take the tea Mung Po offered.

Yet Shih felt satisfied with the start they had made. He turned to find a youth dressed in turquoise silks peering into the courtyard, his angular features passing from astonishment to vexation. Shih hurried over, still holding his steaming cup.

‘Dr Du Tun-i! Thank goodness you are here. We have a great need of you!’

The younger man tried to look stern.

‘What is going on?’

Dr Shih sipped his tea. The Supervising Officer flushed at such disrespect.

‘I did not authorise these. . . changes,’ he said. ‘By whose authority have they happened?’

Elated by work and energy, Shih could not help smiling.

‘I suppose, since you are our father here, it must be your authority,’ he said.

Dr Du Tun-i bit his lip and looked around. There was no denying the new sense of purpose in the Relief Bureau. With it came calm, the perseverance of men reassured by order and efficiency in a dark, chaotic hour. Even misery is bearable when one believes it tends towards progress. Dr Tun-i noted a fresh sack of millet being emptied into a cauldron and restrained a comment.

‘You have anticipated my intentions,’ he said, uncertainly.

‘Yet you did not consult your superior. I must inform my uncle.’

Shih lowered his cup.

‘Dr Du Tun-i, a great many of these men need moxa or needles to settle their pain. Will you not administer the treatment?’

Dr Du Tun-i wavered, then looked stern. Shih remembered himself at that age. How strange it was for an older man to be bullied by youth!

‘Uncle warned me you are insubordinate,’ declared the young man. He struggled for the decisive last word. ‘But you have done well to follow my intentions so exactly.’

There was no deceit in his tone. He believed what he said.

That anything good must be attributed to his own virtue, anything bad to the incompetence of others.

‘I am glad you are pleased,’ said Shih. ‘Perhaps you should send your uncle a memorandum describing how well you have done.’

For a moment Dr Du Mau’s nephew looked at him suspiciously. That moment soon passed.

The Supervising Officer walked with quiet dignity to his desk. Chung, who had been listening to the conversation, followed Dr Du Tun-i into the office while Shih and Mung Po bent over a patient.

An hour later the apprentice hurried across the Floating Bridge towards Fouzhou where Dr Du Mau’s residence stood.

In his hand was Dr Du Tun-i’s freshly composed memorandum.

It was a message Chung had earnestly begged to deliver.

Especially as Dr Du Tun-i had ordered it should be delivered directly into his illustrious uncle’s own hands.

‘It is said that Nancheng and Fouzhou are like two raised fists holding back invaders from the North. How so? Why not march round Nancheng’s impregnable walls and moats, striking deep into the Empire’s stomach and bowels like a tiger tearing out mouthfuls of soft flesh, swallowing whole cities in gulps while the blood of our people drips from its ravening jaws? The answer is simple. Any invaders foolish enough to leave this great city full of resolute men, will soon find all communications severed. They will be harried before and behind, and on either side. Thus invaders dare not enter the Yangtze region without first securing the Twin Cities. . .’

From
Dream Pool Essays
by Shen Kua 

Peacock Hill, Nancheng. Winter, 1266.

Neither side prospered as the siege entered its fourth month.

Yet if the Twin Cities fell, the Yangtze River would lie exposed like a pulsing vein leading directly to the Empire’s heart.

Nancheng’s wide moats and walls endured assault after assault. When a desperate attempt to storm Swallow Gate littered the ground with broken towers and thousands of corpses, General A-ku changed tactics. The best weapon he retained was hunger. So his forces, swollen by Chinese conscripts from the North, tightened their siege lines. Even this great blockade proved a sieve. Messages and supplies entered the city through the river fleet led by General Zheng Shun’s cousin, Admiral Qi-Qi.

The Mongols’ frustration was matched by that of the defenders. Although Wang Ting-bo risked another attempt to break out, it fared as badly as the first. After that, the Pacification Commissioner resolved to diminish the enemy by other means.

Guang was solemnly ordered to deploy his artillery day and night. They had few other ways of hurting the barbarians.

Boulders flew back and forth, sometimes so thick in the sky that rocks ricocheted off each other. Both sides sent streams of fire arrows into the night until stars were hidden by streaking meteors. No one burned much of value. As long as General A-ku kept his forces behind the palisade of the Mongol camp Guang lacked targets. This excuse barely appeased Wang Ting-bo who hungered for favourable reports to send to the Imperial Court.

Day after day Guang toured the city ramparts, observing slaves without number dragged from their villages to construct Mongol ditches and ramps. He did not hesitate to view the unfortunate conscripts as targets. They were aiding the enemy, whether by choice or coercion – force subjugating force was all that mattered now.

When he snatched a little sleep, scurrying peasants crushed by his boulders crowded Guang’s dreams, chattering angrily and accusing him of murder. He would wake and reach for the flask he kept beside the bed to drive him to another day’s grim work.

One evening Guang remembered his conversation with Lu Ying in the moonlit Apricot Corner Court. That night the air had been strangely still, as though the humble courtyard floated like the Isles of the Blessed where only Immortals dwell.

It puzzled him how the memory filled his mind, vivid as a dream. Then Guang recollected that Immortals never dream, for they have transcended desire, and wondered what made him think of her. Yet that night, as he slept, her beauty softened his troubled soul.

*

Wang Ting-bo summoned his commanders and high officials to the Hall of Ineffable Rectitude. As Guang knelt he sensed the presence of ghosts, watchful spirits, spying on their council of war. Long ago the hall had been the audience chamber of a petty king, before the Son of Heaven’s ancestors re-united the Empire. Did Wang Ting-bo’s choice of this room denote a hidden ambition?

One might speculate – especially as his nephew, Wang Bai, sat beside the Pacification Commissioner on a small throne.

Several generations of the Wang clan had ruled this province.

For the first time Guang wondered how far their hopes extended. If politeness was any guide, Wang Ting-bo’s face was genial enough to dispel suspicion.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We find ourselves like pheasants beaten into a corner of the forest and penned in by huntsmen.’

Wang Ting-bo was evidently pleased by this comparison and glanced at his nephew for approval.

‘Your Excellency,’ said Admiral Qi-Qi. ‘I believe we are faring better than you suggest. We are more like tigers who retreat to an impassable gully, where we glare down at our enemy and roar whenever we choose.’

Wang Ting-bo frowned.

‘No, Zheng Qi-Qi, we are exactly as I have said. Pheasants in a forest.’

The room fell silent.

‘His Excellency means to express disappointment,’ broke in Prefect Wang Bai. ‘The siege is over four moons old yet we have not forced the Mongols to retreat. No one could deny we are hemmed in.’

‘With respect, sir,’ said Admiral Qi-Qi. ‘The advantage lies on our side. We are well-supplied and their blockade is ineffective. In a few months, spring will bring the heat and moisture our enemy finds intolerable.’

‘We must see things as they are, sir,’ added his cousin, General Zheng Shun. ‘It is pointless to hope our forces in the city can drive them off. The court must gather an army capable of lifting the siege.’

Wang Ting-bo’s expression hardened.

‘Yet I am displeased.’

‘Sir,’ said General Zheng Shun, grimly. ‘If you intend another attempt to break out, I will state plainly that I oppose it. Too many good men have already perished that way.’

Once again Wang Ting-bo glanced at his nephew. Was it for reassurance? To confirm some prior conversation? Guang could not be sure. He detected weakness in the man appointed by Heaven to win victory. But even Wang Ting-bo would find it hard to oppose Zheng Shun’s advice. The general was beloved by both his soldiers and the people.

‘We can never rest secure until we understand the enemy’s intentions,’ said Wang Bai. ‘Therefore I must reveal a startling offer. . .’

The assembled officers listened avidly, for it appeared a great fish had swum willingly into their net. A message had been received from one of General A-ku’s Northern Chinese mercenary commanders, offering to defect. It seemed he had grievances of a deep nature against the Mongol general.

However, he would only cross over to Nancheng if accom panied by a senior officer from the Twin Cities, who must join him in the Mongol camp. He had even sent his brother-in-law to act as a hostage and guide. In return, he offered information that would expose all the weaknesses of the Mongol army. Silence filled the Hall of Ineffable Rectitude.

‘An obvious trap!’ declared General Zheng Shun. ‘Why else would the fellow insist on a senior officer sneaking into their camp?’

Wang Bai smiled patiently.

‘We need a brave man,’ he announced. ‘I had in mind Admiral Qi-Qi.’

The latter did not hide his surprise.

‘I have never lacked courage,’ he said, coldly.

‘Cousin, do not think of it,’ broke in Zheng Shun.

All eyes were upon the unfortunate Admiral Qi-Qi.

‘We might gain information that will end the siege!’ said Wang Bai. Then he sighed. ‘But if Admiral Qi-Qi is. . . anxious.’

General Zheng Shun laid a restraining hand on his cousin’s arm. Though Guang had remained silent, looking from face to face, at last he saw his chance.

‘I will gladly be that senior officer,’ he announced. ‘Let it be me!’

If Guang expected praise from his great patron he was swiftly disappointed. Wang Bai’s vexation was obvious.

‘I did not have you in mind,’ he muttered.

‘Gentlemen, I have experience behind the enemy lines. Think how I rescued my father.’

The other commanders were examining him in wonder.

‘That’s settled,’ said Wang Ting-bo, beaming. ‘Really, Commander Yun Guang, you ceaselessly impress me. Truly you are worthy of your great ancestor.’

To Guang’s embarrassment Wang Ting-bo began to recite one of Great-grandfather Yun Cai’s most famous poems, the long one about the lotus every schoolboy was forced to learn by heart. His Excellency’s deep, sonorous voice echoed round the splendid chamber, emphasising the rhymes. Guang had always found the lotus poem obscure – its relevance to their current predicament escaped him entirely.

When the audience was over, General Zheng Shun shook his head sadly and stalked from the Hall of Ineffable Rectitude.

Guang, however, was in such high favour with the Pacification Commissioner that His Excellency insisted he share tea.

*

‘Can you really not see this is a trap?’

Chen Song was pacing. Guang had seldom seen him so animated.

‘If His Excellency trusts this renegade, who are we to doubt?’

His friend seemed not to have heard.

‘You tell me Wang Bai wished Admiral Qi-Qi to be the bait tempting the turncoat,’ continued Chen Song. ‘That tells me much. Everyone knows His Excellency’s nephew hates Qi-Qi.

What better way to be rid of him?’

Guang had not realised his friend was so well-informed.

‘You may have a point,’ he conceded.

‘Yet still you volunteered!’

‘I am not afraid!’

‘Fear is not always weakness.’

Chen Song ceased to pace and sat before the wine-tray.

Amber liquid had spilled on its lacquer surface. They were in Guang’s pavilion, all shutters closed against a cold wind from the north.

‘My friend,’ said Chen Song, finally. ‘Though your pride and courage are admirable, I must advise you to change your mind.

I am astonished His Excellency has been so easily duped.’

Guang poured another bowl. Its fire could not dispel a gnawing, incipient dread.

‘I cannot,’ he replied. ‘Today His Excellency honoured me with tea. Think of it! He told me he craves stirring reports to send to the Son of Heaven’s court. If I were to disappoint him, all hope of advancement must cease. I might even lose my place as Commander of Artillery.’

‘It is said the grave is a cold, dark place,’ said Chen Song.

‘We may be sure A-ku would not let you enter it painlessly.’