Shanghai (22 page)

“Chinese silver or American gold coin.” Richard took a breath, then said, “Now, this very moment, or I offer it to Jardine Matheson.”

The mention of Dent's historic rival brought the desired effect. Two hours later Richard handed over the writ of ownership of his last clipper ship and received his compensation in Chinese silver.

“It's heavy,” he said to Maxi.

“Yes, but it's not enough to pay our debt.”

“No, but we should be able to buy ourselves some time by producing ten percent of the debt in currency—this is currency, Maxi.”

“Fine, but it only buys us time. What are we going …?”

Richard spun the chambers on his floor safe and opened it. “Maxi, here are the deeds for the three properties we have in the Concession. Bring them to
Chen and get us buyers—Chinese buyers. Take the money and buy cheaper land, then build, Maxi, build. Keep five percent of the currency and leverage that. Call Patterson and get him to deliver the rest of the silver to the Vrassoons, and call in the boys.”

“Why the boys?”

“Because I'm heading back upriver.”

“Tonight?”

“Or earlier. The key to this whole thing is getting Chinese labour into the Concession. Without them, we're doomed.”

“We still owe the one hundred thousand silver
taels
in tariff to the Mandarin.”

“Stall. It's a language he'll understand. The money's on its way, the money got lost, the money is up your arse … you're a Baghdadi, God damn it, so like every good Baghdadi, lie, Maxi. Make it up, just stall him—then start building. All those workers who're coming into this city need places to live.”

* * *

RICHARD DIDN'T BOTHER with horses this time. He took Maxi's second-in-command, an almost silent man named Phillips, whose loyalty to Maxi was beyond question. The two of them took Maxi's much loved and much used two-man junk and sculled out into the waters of the Huangpo River. When they got to the treacherous confluence of the Yangtze they stayed on the south side of the great river.

They made sure they passed by the hostile village that had set Richard's first team adrift well before dawn on the second day. Phillips watched the shoreline warily as they passed.

At noon on the third day Richard pointed to a prosperous-looking village on the south shore.

“You sure, sir?” They were almost the only words Phillips had spoken since they had begun their journey.

“No, Phillips, this is China, what could be sure?”

But their reception was cordial, if cool. No guns, no Taoist priests, and by late afternoon two rice merchants who had done business with Richard in the past—using their good auspices and warehouses as covers for opium trade—showed up. Orders were given and the women prepared a meal. Not a feast as a show of welcome, as is customary, but a large meal.

Richard watched carefully where he was seated at the round table. Well, to be more exact, he watched carefully where the head of the fish was facing. The head of the fish always faced the guest of honour. The old woman who shambled in and placed the fish platter on the table turned it so that the head faced Richard. He gave out an audible sigh.

The food was fresh and gently seasoned with soya and ginger. The steamed buns, stuffed with pork and nuts, and a plant that the Chinese referred to as green vegetable were cooked in some sort of light, white sauce. The rice was unusual. Richard remarked on it.

“Basmati,” the rice merchant answered, “best rice in the world. If the gods ate rice, they'd eat only basmati. Unfortunately, we are just beginning to grow it in the delta.”

Before the meal was halfway through Richard broached the problem of the lack of Chinese workers willing to work in the
Fan Kuei
Concessions. The rice merchants pondered, or appeared to ponder, Richard's problem. Then Richard said, “Basmati may be the rice of
the gods, but this,” he produced a palm-leaf–wrapped ball of opium, “is the dream of the gods.”

A full night of smoking later, the rice merchants had agreed to move two hundred chests of opium for Richard. They still had no solution for the lack of workers in the Concession, but Richard was happy with their commitment as a start. They also agreed to come to Shanghai and get the goods themselves when they next arrived to pick up rice shipments from the delta. This after yet another evening of fine smoke. On the third evening of smoke, Richard broached the idea of the rice merchants recruiting other rice merchants farther upriver to continue the chain of opium sales farther inland.

But Richard's timing was bad. The men wanted to smoke and dream, but Richard, feeling the need to get back to Shanghai, pushed when he shouldn't have. The presence of two courtesans in their midst and too much opium flashing through Richard's veins didn't help. When the younger of the two rice merchants suddenly retracted his offer of sale and assistance altogether, Richard lost his temper and pushed the man. He tripped over the opium brazier and let out a yelp as the hot coals fell on his foot. He hopped away and lost his balance, hitting his head hard against the stone floor—and lay very, very still.

Richard didn't remember much after that. There was some yelling and much commotion. He felt a sharp pain on his left temple—then darkness.

He awoke with the oddest sensation. He was on his knees, but his head was propped off the ground and his hands were tied to something ahead of him. It was completely dark, so he couldn't tell what had happened. He leaned to one side and found himself suddenly rolling
until his face was pointed to the ceiling—or whatever was up there. His back was bent at an awkward angle and he had no choice but to stay that way, until mercifully daylight came.

There was no mercy in the light of day, however. He saw the millstone, about four and a half feet in diameter, had been, like stone stocks, clamped down around his neck, and smelled the deep reek of urine that he finally figured out was coming from him. His hands were through two holes in the millstone and chained in place. He tried to lift the thing, and it took all of his considerable strength to get it off the ground. He quickly allowed it back to the dust. It had to weigh in excess of two hundred pounds.

He turned and the damned thing rolled, putting him face up again. He gave a heave and it turned again so that he could put his knees down. He tried to control his panic. He was in the village's central square. Peasants carrying earthenware jugs to the well for the morning meal began to arrive. At first he tried to talk to them, but it soon became obvious that they would not respond to him in any way. Even his entreaties for a sip of water were ignored.

He calmed himself and took stock of the situation. The man he'd pushed in the opium den—maybe he'd died. Perhaps he himself had been sentenced while unconscious.
Not exactly due process,
he thought. Then he thought of his partner, the silent Phillips, Maxi's second-in-command. Where was he? He tried to remember if the man had been with him smoking opium. No, he hadn't been there. Richard remembered him sitting silently to one side, then leaving before the argument.

Richard knew that any punishment meted out to him would also apply to his man. By Chinese thinking, each of
them was responsible for the actions of the other. Richard tried to lift the millstone to see if his comrade was in the square with him, but his knees buckled under the strain, allowing the millstone to clunk to the ground again. This thrust his head forward and drew blood from his shoulders. He took a breath and looked straight forward—east into the rising sun. He strained to look left and right but couldn't move his head enough to get a good look at whatever was or wasn't to his north and south. He didn't see Phillips. He dug in his knees and pushed to the right. The millstone rolled, allowing him to see, although upside down, to the west side of the square—no Phillips. He shifted his weight and the stone rolled, allowing him to get his knees down. He needed the stone to make a circle so he could see north and south. He took three deep breaths, arched his back, and pushed with his feet—the millstone lifted off the ground and turned about thirty degrees to the east. He allowed himself to catch his breath and looked again. No Phillips. It took him almost an hour and all of his energy to lift the millstone over and over again so that he completed a full circle. Phillips was nowhere to be seen in the square.

Richard allowed himself a moment of hope. Phillips was smart, resourceful, and loyal. He would have headed back to Shanghai to get help—if he wasn't already dead. Richard refused to allow himself to consider that possibility.

The heat was increasing by the minute. He needed water, and the well was almost thirty yards away. He reminded himself that in the heat, without water, a man could easily die. His shoulders ached, and the millstone continued to cut deep into them, but he needed water. He set his feet and pushed to his right. The heavy stone moved grudgingly in the dirt.
He looked to his right. He wanted the line of the millstone to lead him straight to the well. He was off by a little. He regrouped and pushed again. The well was pretty much in a straight line to his right. He steadied his breath, dug in his left foot, shifted his body weight to the right, and pushed. The millstone did a complete revolution and a half and came to a stop with Richard facing the blazing sun. He shimmied his weight and the thing finally turned enough to allow his left foot to touch the ground. He pushed hard and the stone rolled, this time just a bit more than a full turn, so that his knees once again touched down. He looked to his right. He was off line. He planted his right foot in the dirt and pushed. Nothing. He tried a second time. The thing wouldn't move. He looked down. A damned pebble. A pebble stopped his progress! He planted his left foot and shifted his body weight and the thing turned a full revolution.

By this time he had generated an audience of gawking children, most of whom had never seen a White Devil, let alone a White Devil in a millstone. He ignored them and pushed to straighten the line of the millstone. This time there was no rock to impede the movement of the stone. He rested for a while.

He must have slept, because when he looked up the sun was already past its zenith and the children were gone. He felt the blood on his cheek where he must have scraped it against the stone in his sleep. He looked to his right. The well was only ten yards away and, miraculously, directly in line with the trajectory of the millstone. Richard managed to roll the thing seven more revolutions in the next few hours and found himself right beside the well.

He slept for a bit to get his strength together. When he awoke he gave a mighty heave and lifted the millstone onto the ledge of the well. It almost tipped over into the abyss, but he managed to control the weight.

Now that he was there he faced an even more daunting task. How was he to lift the water to his mouth with his hands chained a full two feet away from his mouth? Even if he could pull a bucket of water up to the ledge (how he could do that he hadn't even begun to consider), how could he then get the water from the bucket to his mouth?

He felt a hand on his back and turned his head as best as he could manage. A figure was silhouetted by the sun—a small figure of a man in what Richard could only make out as a filthy black robe. A voice he thought he recognized said, “Are ye doing God's work, me son? Or the work of the Devil? Ye must nae do the Devil's work, son.”

The heat was intense, and he knew he was already badly dehydrated. He could not tell if he was delirious or if somehow the dwarf Jesuit from the ship all those years ago was actually by his side, nursing water into his parched mouth and telling him that he must sleep, that he needed his strength for the challenge ahead.

Richard wanted to say thank you, but his mouth was full of water, and he swallowed it gratefully. Then he found himself on a gentle slope that allowed the weight of the millstone off his shoulders. Sleep, deep sleep, found him, and he retreated gratefully into its safety.

* * *

THE NEXT DAY Richard was pulled to his feet and marched, every part of him aching, to the local
Mandarin's office. The man never looked at Richard, who swayed precariously with the weight of the millstone on his shoulders, knowing full well if he fell the Mandarin would have him executed. Finally the Mandarin pronounced his sentence, a hundred days, then called out the words “
Dai nu ren shang lai, xi ling
—Bring out the woman and the bells.”

Quickly the Mandarin's supernumeraries attached tinkling bells to the locks of the millstone so that every movement produced a giggling burp of jingles. Then they looped a rope around Richard's waist, and a small woman, wearing a deeply cowled robe, stepped forward. On a sharp order from the Mandarin she lifted her head and pulled back her hood. Her nose and ears had been cut off. Richard had to make himself stay still. Somehow he knew he mustn't look away from this woman. She approached him and took the free end of the rope. She gave a tug and led him out of the chamber.

I'm the end of the punishment for her that began with her disfigurement,
Richard thought as he staggered behind her.
I'm this poor woman's final disgrace
. He knew his very life depended on this woman. He thought long and hard before he said his first words to her. They were, “Thank you for your kindness.”

She responded by screeching insults at him.

Not a bad start,
Richard thought.
With other women I've done worse.

Richard slowly learned the delicate balancing act needed for the basics of survival—like how to squat to defecate with the weight on his shoulders (like most Europeans, he didn't bother with the niceties of hygiene), how to build up a slant of dirt to allow himself to sleep without wrenching his back or having to sleep on his
knees, how to find support for the weight on his neck when he stood, how to beg the woman to feed him, as he had no earthly way of getting his hands to his mouth.