Le Colonial (20 page)
March
1776
F
rançois squatted on the branch of a banyan tree, gripping a lance. It was a crude weapon, a stout iron bar laced to a pointed spearhead, but practice had made it rest naturally in his hand. His body, bare except for a brown cloth wrapped around his midsection, was coated in mud. The dirt’s earthy odor served to mask his human scent from his prey. A dagger was looped through his waistband.
He sat unmoving, quiet and alert, with his back leaning against the tree trunk, as he surveyed the greenery that encircled him. His face, freckled by the filtered gold of the sun, studied the forest with the patience of a leopard. There was no sound, no movement, except for his breathing and the blink of his eyes.
In a tree nearby, a shadow stirred, breaking the silence. One of the other hunters had grown restless. François tensed. The squirming ceased, and the jungle fell back to a tense stupor.
For the past three months, since returning to the King’s Screens Mountains, François had made himself a part of the rebel force. For the first time since his arrival in Annam, he felt that he comprehended the role of a missionary. No longer could he rely on the Bible or his expressive drawings of Christ on the cross to get the peasants’ attention. He studied their ways of thinking, asked them about their hopes, their dreams, and their fears as well as their beliefs. Only when he was truly accepted as one of the natives could he contemplate building another church.
Under Prince Thom’s direction, he had been assigned to join a legion of fifty men whose task was to hunt and gather food for the community. From the start, his Western stature, strength, and stamina gave him an advantage over most of the Annamites, and his eagerness to learn intensified his skills. As days passed in basic survival exercises, his palms developed calluses. He allowed his hair to grow wild like the majority of the men. Like them, he shaved his beard daily to keep his face clean.
Every day he devoted himself to his insatiable new interest in the Annamites’ culture. Now François could identify a person’s origin by the inflections of his dialect. He questioned everyone around him to learn the history of East Asia, memorizing the war strategies, ruses, and deceits of kings and emperors of past eras. In doing so, he discovered the depths of loyalty the Annamites had for one another and for their sovereigns.
His hard work was noticed, and he was advanced to the leadership of a band of ten hunters. In the eyes of the peasants, he was no longer a foreigner—a white ghost—who had invaded their land. They had accepted him, even Annamizing his name. He was now known as Father Phan.
From his roost, he heard the beaters crashing cymbals from a distance. Anticipation rushed through his arm. With his weapon, he could kill any animal, large or small. He flexed his bicep, raising and lowering his weapon in his hand, expecting the arrival of the prey.
He felt, before he could see, the thunderous stampede. Then a herd of wild buffalo charged toward him, running from the noisemakers. There were hundreds of them, slick black and rippling with muscular humps, climbing the slope in unison, trampling everything in their path. Their red eyes seethed like molten lava. As they poured past him, he tightened his fingers around his spear. His hunting instinct, formed in Villaume and heightened by time in Kim Lai, prompted him to search for that one single beast that would present a perfect target.
He spotted his choice. A bull! It sprinted away from the rest of the herd with its head down. Its elongated, pronglike horns thrust forward, stabbing at some invisible foe. A loner! In its round eyes, bright under a shaggy mane, he detected no fear, only rage.
The cymbal sound was coming closer. Instead of fleeing, the bull stopped and turned toward its pursuers, lowering its head and kicking the dirt. From where François hid, the buffalo’s heavy forequarters were almost directly below him. He could see every swell of muscle beneath its massive bulk.
He lunged from the tree branch and landed on top of his prey. With his left hand grasping the bull’s horn, he jammed his lance through the thick hide below its right ear. The beast jolted as blood sprayed from the wound. It flinched, snorted, and swiveled, struggling to topple its enemy.
François held on. A season with the West Mountaineers had renewed his strength and confidence. His fingers slipped from the horn but caught the buffalo’s mane, and he let the animal carry him through the woods. Around him the forest remained as before, green and brown and dotted with gold, only now the colors blended together like a smudge on a canvas. Where were his companions? Their plan had been for François to select an animal and make the first attack; the others were to help him finish the task. For now, at least, he was alone with the wounded, enraged beast.
When the bull slowed, he gripped the spear, pulling hard. It yielded to his strength, tearing the flesh on its way out with a loud ripping noise. His right hand was red and slippery. He saw the wound, just for a moment, before the hot crimson stream stung his face. The buffalo gave a powerful shake, tossing its head. It hurled himthrough the leaves, and he landed in a bed of damp black earth. The buffalo shuddered, snorted blood, and broke away into the deep forest.
He sat, catching his breath. There was no one else in the clearing but him. He heard his teammates’ voices, calling to one another, following the same trail of blood he had pursued. The sound of cymbals was growing nearer.
“You cannot escape,” he said aloud.
He staggered to his feet and picked up the lance. The forest around him was strewn with crushed leaves and broken twigs. He sniffed the air, detecting the odor of blood. He was sure he had inflicted a fatal wound on the animal. It could not have gone far before it weakened from blood loss. He walked through the woods, following all signs of the bull’s desperate flight.
The closer he got to his prize, the bloodier the path. He found it standing behind a flowery shrub, trembling and rolling its eyes at him. He advanced. Both his hands lifted the spear, ready. The bull glared back; a hoof scratched the dirt.
With a bellow it charged him, a soaring wall of black fury. The air churned. He stood still. When it came close enough, he plunged his spear into its shoulder, feeling the trident head reaching for the heart. The buffalo’s massive force crashed into him, and he was hurled through space, while it collapsed on its forelegs. He landed on his back. The animal let out a last bellow of desperation; its lips trembled. From the kneeling position, his prey tumbled to its side and rested its head in its own blood.
When he approached, it was too weak to move. The spear protruded from its neck. Standing over its body, he waited for it to die. At last, its belly swelled in one final forceful heave, and it expired, just as LGc and three other West Mountaineers caught up with him.
“Father Phan!” LGc cried. “You’ve done it! You’re the master of the hunt.”
Outside the City of Hue, the rebels camped patiently, waiting to gain entrance. So far the conquerors—the northern army of Tonquinese—were silent within the protection of the citadel. They had attacked the South in order to seize the kingdom’s wealth, and they had succeeded. Having forced the southern king and his family to flee toward Saygun, they now held the famous capital of Cochin China at their mercy.
Inside the wall, the citizens suffered. Each day brought new reports about the cruelty of the invaders. Only the captors knew the fate of the southern kingdom. Who would be its new ruler remained an unanswered question. The three brothers hoped that the Tonquinese had come only to plunder the citadel, not to conquer new territories. The rebel forces could not wage a long war.
It was mere luck that the Tonquinese war boats had been able to take over Hue City without a struggle because of the recent flood. There were few skirmishes between the armies of the North and South. The campaign was mostly an ongoing massacre of innocents. As the Mountaineers waited, the civilian death toll continued to rise.
The three peasant brothers would seek to form an alliance with the northern army so that they themselves could assume power after the invaders departed. So far, all their requests to meet with the Tonquinese officials had been rejected. Though the intruders’ arrogance was intended to humiliate the West Mountaineers, it failed to discourage them into withdrawal. In fact, defiance anchored them, and the longer the rebels were forced to wait, the stronger their will became. With every day they remained on the King’s Screens Mountains, they grew in numbers, as peasants from the valleys, hills, and jungles joined their force. All the while, across the Perfume River, their enemy, like locusts, swarmed over their once stately capital city.
King NhCc, like most monarchs, was invisible to the public view. He resided high on a hill, isolated from his subjects. The youngest brother, Prince Lu, remained by the king’s side as his guard. Among the warriors, no one seemed to have captured the rebels’ respect and affection more than Prince Thom. François often saw him walking through the campsites, accompanied by the female general, Lady Bui, and the Chinese casino owner, General Wang Zicheng. They made the rounds to help the peasants with their makeshift shelters of bamboo branches and thatch coverings, or to train them in the martial arts, always exuding an air of self-assurance and authority.
At times, François caught a glimpse of the prince alone, standing under a tree, practicing his kung-fu steps. His bronzed body, as if sculpted from the Earth’s purest clay, reflected the burning rays of the tropical sun. His hair cascaded in a rippling tide. As he moved his arms and legs in a deliberate, meditative fashion, the mountains loomed above him. Often the prince would acknowledge François with a nod, never holding his stare long enough to create any bond. When he departed, Thom seemed to leave a part of himself behind, whether it was a musky odor, or the imprint of his feet in the sand, or the lingering energy of his being.
December 31 of the lunar calendar—mid-March on the Western calendar—was the first day of the three-day celebration of the Annamite New Year. That morning, the West Mountaineers received a messenger from the citadel. He presented an official document sealed inside a hollow bamboo tube to the three peasant leaders. The news spread quickly across the mountainside: the Tonquinese were now ready to receive the rebels’ representatives.
The next morning, when the sun climbed above the walled city, the New Year began. A storm of booming firecrackers exploded over the mountainside. The sky pulsated, jolting François from his hammock. Birds were screeching and leaping from their nests. For an instant it seemed the rebels were being attacked from every side at once. But over the clamor, he heard laughter.
In the smoke, the dragon dancers swayed to the beating of the drums. The face of LGc, the buffalo keeper, flashed through the papier-mâché mouth of the dragon’s head every time it turned in his direction. Through the air the creature rose and spun, a colorful and festive sight that was believed to ward off evil spirits. Five other dancers hid under its long yellow tail, their feet stomping in time to the hypnotic drums.
“Father Phan, join us!” Thom’s voice came from behind him.
François turned, disoriented.
From the clearing of the forest appeared five riders, sitting bareback on their horses. He was able to distinguish their faces beneath their full combat armor. Leading the group were the brothers Thom and Lu, accompanied by the three warriors: General Wang Zicheng, Lady Bui, and her husband, General Sam Le. In one hand Thom held his favorite weapon, a bow carved from ironwood with ivory inlay, while his other hand guided the reins of his horse. Trotting alongside him was another stallion without a rider. The prince leaned over to pat its back, motioning to François.
“Come along, Father Phan,” he said. “It’s time for us to meet the Tonquinese.”
François was surprised. “Me?” he asked. “You want me to accompany you?”
Thom handed him the animal’s reins. Even though François was not looking forward to reentering the citadel, he mounted the horse.
Thom reached into a pouch at his cummerbund and pulled out a piece of green jade carved in the shape of a fish.
“This carp,” he said in a soft voice, “I have carried with me for eighteen long years; once it belonged to my mother. It was her talisman that she used to drive away evil. In her last moments on Earth, she gave it to me. I believe that as long as I have this charm, no bullets or arrows can harm me.” He returned the fish to the silk compartment. “You have escaped death many times. So to me you are a jade carp.”
François was pleased.
“If you are my friend,” continued the prince as they rode off together, “I want you to be close to me. However, you’ve committed a grave error against us.”
The smile disappeared from François’s face. The prince was so close to him that their two horses were rubbing against each other.
There was no mercy in Thom’s voice as he went on. “You helped an important prisoner escape. And for that my brothers want your death. But I defended you.”
François looked into Thom’s dark, unblinking eyes. “Why?”
“Because you’ve made the game more interesting, but harder to play. If you were my enemy, I would keep you just as close. Now, ride forward!”
Thom broke away, heading toward the open field.
When François entered Hue City, along with the five members of the council, his hands were clammy. Too confused to think, he concentrated on following Prince Thom’s horse ahead of him.
The warriors brought with them several wagons filled with bounty, including honey, sandalwood, bamboo shoots, gold, and the finest betel leaves—exceptional gifts from the mountain. The last wagon was built like a cage. It contained ten female slaves and a mysterious prisoner, whose head was covered in a red silk sack to conceal his identity.
After a brief stop at the south entrance, where the rebels had to leave all their weapons with the gate wardens, the caravan continued on its way. A Tonquinese official and a small troop of soldiers escorted them deep into the fortress that had once belonged to King Due Tong of Cochin China. It was now being occupied by General Viet, one of the important commanders who served the northern vice-king, Trinh Sam.
