Shanghai (30 page)

Father Pierre harrumphed. Something about Americans seemed to particularly gall him. Finally he said, “It is incomprehensible to me what American Protestants believe, if anything. They strike me as closer to Jews and pagans than to Christians.”

This confused the Confucian, but what was evident to him was that Father Pierre was distressed—about something or other. So he took his leave of the man.

Two hours later, in the American Settlement west of the Suzu Creek, he stood patiently in the outer offices of Oliphant and Company, the place the other traders referred to as the House of Zion. The Confucian had asked about that reference and been told that Zion was a place called Israel that was mentioned in the pamphlet that he held in his hand. When he had asked about this Israel he had been told that, like Rome, it was small and actually just a metaphor. This time he'd decided not to ask what the metaphor stood for.

When the door opened he was surprised to see a
Fan Kuei
woman dressed in a long black dress with a bonnet of some sort that covered her head. But the effect of the bonnet was not to hide the woman's beauty so much as frame her remarkable facial features, as a fine filigree hem does a silk robe. The Confucian found most
Fan Kuei
faces almost grotesque in their size and shape—gross in both volume and composition. But this woman's features struck him as understated and pleasing. Then she smiled and the room grew a moment brighter. He smiled back, then followed her into a dark, stuffy office that had much more furniture than was necessary, and ridiculous heavy velvet curtains. The Confucian picked lightly at his silk robe to pull it away from his skin while he waited for Jedediah Oliphant, the head of the House of Oliphant, to turn from the window.
What is it about the
Fan Kuei
and their desire to look out windows?
he wondered.

When Jedediah turned to him, the man's face was awash in sweat, his colour a florid red, and his anger something to behold. “Where did you get this abomination?”

“Abomination,” “blasphemy”—his religious vocabulary was increasing mightily, although he assumed these words were esoteric irrelevancies.

“It is from the Taiping. They have published much of this material and I—”

“Apostasy!”

Another interesting word. How many words did these foolish
Fan Kuei
have for …?

Then the chubby man ripped the pamphlet in two, and in two again.

The Confucian stared at him. Didn't the man understand that there were probably hundreds of thousands of that exact pamphlet in existence? What did ripping one into quarters accomplish?

The head of the House of Zion threw the pieces of the pamphlet into a bucket at the side of his desk, then said, “You do understand that you can go to Hell for reading material like this.”

The Confucian had trouble not laughing about that, but he nodded, thought about leaving this fool's presence, then decided to ask his question. “Did this Taiping writing come from your religious beliefs?”

After much to-ing and fro-ing eventually the man acknowledged that what was written in the pamphlet had its origins in his faith. Then, without prompting, he elaborated, “It began with Reverend Edwin Stevens. He was a Yale man caught up in the great religious revival that swept through New England in the 1820s. He took a post in Canton in 1832 as the head of the American Seaman's Friends Society. He initially spent his time trying to keep English and American sailors from the temptations while on shore.”

This, the Confucian thought, was a foolish way to spend one's time. These poor men had been at sea for months and months, twenty men to a room—how would you keep them from alcohol and women except by shooting them?

“But Stevens eventually realized that his real audience was the Chinese. Millions upon millions of lost souls awaited the Good Word. But getting the Book translated was not simple. The authorities blocked his every effort, until he found a Chinese Christian named Liang, who was working as a printer for a Scottish Protestant named William Milne …”

And on and on he talked. The Confucian got the basics of the story. This Liang, who had been a devout Buddhist, converted to Christianity, probably to keep his job, and produced précis of text from the American Bible, which were then brought to the Chinese. Evidently one of them must have fallen into the hands of the leader of the Taipingers, Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, and it was from this that he had extracted his unusual approach to Christianity.

The Confucian continued to listen. He didn't believe anything of this “faith” had any personal value, but he understood the need for men to escape the drudgery of their lives, to believe that there was some reason for the suffering, and in the end, relief. He couldn't help making the obvious observation that opium offered much the same rewards—escape from drudgery, a reason to work and suffer to be able to get the money to find that escape, and finally a relief from this life altogether.

The Confucian was surprised that the man was still talking. Didn't this silly little fat man realize the danger of peddling dreams? Evidently not. The Confucian thanked the American for his time and made a hasty exit.

When he emerged the sun was shining and the junks on the Suzu Creek were ready for business. He signalled to a bumboat and made his way out to one of the larger junks. He was helped onboard, then sat down to a fine
dinner. As he ate the tender pork dumplings he took out another copy of the Taiping pamphlet and carefully reread it. By the time the main course of drunken shrimp—live shrimp, slightly pixilated because they had been marinating in strong Chinese wine—arrived, he had made up his mind. He tapped the side of the bowl and one of the shrimp leapt upward; he caught it between his chopsticks and watched it wriggle. “I have you,” he said softly. Then he dunked the shrimp into the piquant sauce and popped it into his mouth, where he expertly snipped off its head, swallowed the body, and then spat the head and carapace to the junk's floor.

* * *

HUNG HSIU-CH'UAN smiled at his followers. Only three years ago he had been literally a voice in the wilderness. A failed scholar, seen by many as a religious fanatic. Now he was a leader.

Years ago he had received a religious tract from an American Protestant missionary. He'd put it aside as senseless rantings of White-faced barbarians. But shortly thereafter he'd suffered a serious illness during which he'd had many dreams of a heaven and a man in robes referring to him as his younger brother. In his convalescence he reread the religious tract—and was shocked to see that the man described in the tract was the man from his dreams. That he had been talked to and had talked with Jesus.

It was suddenly clear to him that he was not just another Chinese worker struggling to survive under the pressure of the Manchu Ch'ing Dynasty. He was different. Blessed. Kissed by Heaven—the younger brother of Jesus Christ himself.

His father did not find this amusing, and after Hsiu-ch'uan failed his civil service entrance exam for the second time his family disowned him. He left home and made his way back into the Hakka territory. There he found a Jesuit mission, where he related his dream and asked to be baptized. The Jesuits refused. It was the turning point in his life. He abandoned his desire to be part of any
Fan Kuei
organization and adopted a stance in rigid opposition to all of them. Amongst the dispossessed Hakka peoples he found a ready audience for his vision—to establish the Heavenly Kingdom of Great Peace, of which he was going to be the Heavenly King, with five of his followers named as Kings.

The Manchu authorities laughed. The Europeans were unimpressed. But the Confucian, in Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, believed he had found a means to an end.

* * *

JIANG ARRANGED the introductory meeting with one of Hung Hsiu-ch'uan's rebels. Not a simple thing in Shanghai. Since the revolt of the Small Knife Triad that gave the secretive Tong Society control of the city for the better part of a year and a half, security had been very tight. The British had attempted to impose a curfew, but the French refused to abide by it. They had business interests that required free movement after dark. Daylight brothels were, for obvious reasons, not all that financially successful.

The Confucian was surprised by the modest appearance of the young man whom his wife led into his study. Then he looked closer. The man had the scars of age in his eyes despite his fine, smooth skin and glossy hair.
The Confucian chose to stand when the young rebel entered.

The young fighter looked at the Confucian and a snarl curled his lip. “You have words for me, old man?”

The Confucian bridled at the discourtesy but reminded himself that he had a long road to travel and it was foolish to be waylaid by insults. “Thank you for honouring me with your presence. I have a message I'd like you to carry to your leader, Hung Hsiu-ch'uan.”

The younger man sat heavily. His dirt-stained smock left a slurred mark on the silk of the upholstered chair. Then he looked at the Confucian's desk and sprang to his feet.

The Confucian, confused, backed off as the young fighter kicked over the desk. “What are you—?”

“Are you an examiner, old man? Do you grade the entrance papers of those attempting to be part of the Manchu civil service? Do you work for the oppressors of our country? Are you nothing more than a foreigner dressed in our clothing, sleeping with our women and despoiling this sacred land?”

The Confucian stood his ground. “I have a message I want sent to Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, leader of the Taiping rebels.”

“You mean the Heavenly King.”

“Do I?”

“If you refer to Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, you do.”

“Fine, for the Heavenly King.”

“What is your message for the Heavenly King?”

“Please tell him that I can be of service to his cause.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why would you wish to be of service to the Heavenly King? He will bring equality to this land. No
more Mandarins. No more Confucians. Women will have equal rights. The great landowners will give up their lands and divide it amongst their serfs. Why would you support that which would rob you of your position of power and prestige? Why would you do that?”

Without missing a beat the Confucian said, “Because his cause is just, and the Manchus must be taught a lesson.”

The young rebel looked at the Confucian. “Why is it that I don't believe you?”

The Confucian took a breath, then let it out slowly. “Who am I addressing?”

“Can you not guess?”

“Hung Hsiu-ch'uan?”

“The very same Hung Hsiu-ch'uan that you people refused entrance to the civil service twice.”

“Perhaps we did you a favour. Rather than one scribe amongst millions you are now a man of great power.” That hung in the air like something hot and volatile. The Confucian knew that his life could end momentarily if this were taken the wrong way.

Hung walked back to the podium and tilted the writing stone there. The ink dribbled down the side of the mahogany desk and dripped to the hardwood floor. “I repeat—what do you want, old man?”

“I want to support your cause.”

“Why would you want that?”

“Because your victory would support my goals.”

“Which are?”

“None of your business.”

The rebel turned on him, his hand raised, but the Confucian did not back down.

“Think practically for a moment. You believe in your cause. I do not. But I have the means you need to help
your cause succeed. Why does it matter what there is for me in this?”

The rebel allowed his hand to come down to his side. “What do you have to offer me?”

“Access to the society of the canal porters. Perhaps half a million men without work, without hope, and with very strong arms.”

The Confucian wanted to smile, but he wisely chose not to as Hung Hsiu-ch'uan, the Heavenly King, took a seat and said simply, “I'm listening.”

* * *

THE CONFUCIAN'S VISIT to the prison was brief. They had expected his coming since the arrival of the thief who was not to be executed. The Confucian had the man unshackled and took him by the arm and guided him out of the prison. The stunned man didn't know what to say and did his best to express his appreciation, but the Confucian stopped him.

“Can you read?”

“Some.”

“Enough to read this?” the Confucian asked, handing over the Taiping pamphlet.

“I already know about …”

“The Taipingers?”

“Yes.”

“And?” The canal worker was suddenly wary. The Confucian put his hand on the man's shoulder and said simply, “The Heavenly King is expecting you and your people.”

With the canal workers swelling his ranks, the Heavenly King launched his first major strike against the Manchu overlords. With his goal of a Kingdom of
Heaven on earth set as firmly as frontlets between his eyes he aimed his troops toward the same vulnerable point in the Manchus' defences that the hated British had attacked in 1841—Chinkiang, the City of Suicides.

* * *

It was in the late fall of 1852 when Maxi found himself admiring the craftsmanship of a nail-free free-standing home. Perfect tongue-and-groove wooden planks fit one into the next to form a remarkably pleasing whole. Through his interpreter he asked the cost of building such a structure. Upon hearing the outrageous quote, he laughed. But he knew that even after real bargaining the price would not come down enough. He was here to create a secure depot for the Hordoon brothers' products, not a work of art like the one in front of which he now stood. Maxi changed the subject by asking, through his translator, “Where did you get the fine silk robe you're wearing?”

“A half day's journey up the river at Chinkiang. They have the finest silks in the whole of the Middle Kingdom.” He paused, and a smile came to his face as he added, “I have a brother who could get you the best price for …”