Shanghai (33 page)

That completely stopped the Taipinger, who slowly nodded.

“He's my brother.”

Something akin to a smile crossed the Taipinger's face. “He's a very brave man.”

“Is my brother all right?”

“He is by the side of the Heavenly Leader.”

When that was translated, the ripple of shock amongst the traders was palpable. So that was where the maniac went. There had been rumours for months that he had gotten himself killed on a trading expedition or in a whorehouse. But now this!

Oliphant cursed under his breath. First the Jew assaulted him and his men, then he had to send Rachel back to his sister in Philadelphia to prevent a scandal, and now the red-haired crazy man was fighting for the Taiping rebels!

So the red-haired Jew is working for the God rebels,
Hercules MacCallum thought.
Surely the oddest of bedfellows.
Then he looked at Richard Hordoon and the Taiping King.
Yet another unlikely pair,
he thought.

With Maxi's image secured between Richard and the Taiping King of the West, the negotiations that would eventually lead to the guarantee of neutrality for the Settlement and the French Concession began. The talks went on for two more days, at the end of which time a declaration of peace and support was signed by both sides.

With that done, Richard turned his attention to the issue of the Vrassoon. He knew he had a weapon in the doctored photograph, but he didn't know how or if he ought to use it.

The Lands of the Heavenly King and Shanghai 1854

The Heavenly King allowed his fingers to trace the elegant hem of his fine Chinkiang silk robe as, from a hill, he watched the movement of his troops across the plain below. Huge banners distinguished one Taiping regiment from the next. He spotted a black line in the ground across which his troops hadn't crossed. He wondered what the cut in the ground was, but being the Heavenly King and brother of Jesus made it difficult to admit that there were things he didn't know. Then he noticed what looked like long, earth-toned silk runner carpets meeting up with the black trench. In the distance the Manchu forces of the Q'ing Dowager Empress were massed in
formal battle array. Augmented by mercenaries from many countries, the Q'ing fighters were the best-trained soldiers in the whole of Asia. And they fought for personal plunder, so they really fought.

The Heavenly King turned his head and lifted a finger. His adjutant, a young man with a pockmarked face who spoke fluent Hakka, Cantonese, Mandarin, and—in this case most importantly—English, leaned in with head bowed and asked, “Majesty?”

“The red-haired
Fan Kuei?
” he demanded.

The young man pointed to a stand of trees at the extreme west side of the battlefield and held out the British-made spyglass. The Heavenly King took the instrument and panned the formation of the Beijing devil's troops, then past them to the small thicket. “The
Fan Kuei
is in the trees?” he asked.

“Yes, Majesty.”

“And what is he doing in the …?” But his words ceased as, through the glass, he spotted movement in the thicket. Movement, then suddenly men on horseback broke through the treeline and headed toward the black trench on the right flank of the Q'ing formation. The black trench! Then he saw them. The earth-coloured runner carpets being pulled away by thick silk cords, revealing more black trenches beneath them. He followed the course of the darkness on the land. He hadn't noticed before that the dark path completely encircled the Manchu forces.

As the Manchus wheeled to face what they thought was an onslaught from the thicket, a single figure with a red kerchief around his neck raced from the opposite side toward the black trench. The Heavenly King gasped as he saw the red-haired
Fan Kuei
touch a lit torch to the side of the black circle. For a moment nothing happened,
then the fire spirit leapt up from the ground and raced with ever-increasing speed down the length of the dark trench, encircling the Manchu forces in flame.

Maxi spoke softly to his horse to calm him in the presence of the fire, then stood on the animal's back, took off his red kerchief, and waved it. The five Taiping regiments, one composed entirely of women, swung in two wide arcs around the outside of the flaming trench.

As the disoriented and gasping Manchus leapt through the ring of flame the Taipingers opened fire—and the slaughter was appalling.

* * *

UPON HEARING of their defeat, the Q'ing authorities immediately attacked twenty villages thought by them to be Taiping centres. Men, women, and children were burned alive in the courtyards of their living compounds. Only the aged were spared, to spread the Manchus' message:
This will happen to anyone who offers food or support of any kind to the rebels.

On the rivers, the lifeblood of China, the war was carried by the Taipingers to the Q'ing with a vigour that took the Manchus by surprise. The willingness of Taiping soldiers to offer up their lives was new in the Middle Kingdom. Then the South River pirates left their looting ways and joined the Taipingers, adding vast knowledge of the rivers and many ships to the rebel cause. And just as the British had done a decade earlier, the Taipingers began to strangle China by blockading its great rivers.

The Manchus counterattacked with particular viciousness and initially drove the Taipingers back toward their mountain aerie. But as serfs swelled their
ranks, the Taipingers organized them into more and more regiments and finally drove the Manchus back toward Beijing. The viciousness of the fighting surprised both sides. There were never any prisoners taken. The soil of China was quickly drenched in the blood of its people. The initial deaths only hinted at the final death toll—some thirty million, who would lose their lives as the Heavenly King established his heaven on earth
.

Those who found themselves under Taiping rule were forced to convert to the Heavenly King's particular variant of Protestantism, the one true faith, and obey strict rules about the separation of the sexes, religious observances, and military service. Not everyone found the Taipingers' way of life easy to tolerate. Meanwhile, ethnic Chinese under Manchu control were taxed unmercifully and were constantly under suspicion of being rebel sympathizers.

However, it was in the disputed zones that things were the worst. Villagers never knew if they were going to be punished by the Manchus or the Taipingers. Life quickly became unbearable. And people began to move—to safety—to the Foreign Settlement in Shanghai.

There, Richard's land purchases, crowded with four-storey tenements designed by Maxi and built by Anderson, were awaiting their coming. Literally thousands of people arrived at the Bend in the River every week for almost two years—and Richard had places for them to stay. Sometimes five to a room, sometimes ten. For the wealthy from Chinkiang and Nanking he had single-family dwellings.

Finally he had more workers than he could use, and so much money in rent that he could claim the title of Asia's richest landlord.

And the first thing he did with this windfall was to hire a Pinkerton—to find out what happened to his parents back in Calcutta.

* * *

MAXI LOOKED at his pregnant Hakka wife and her two young daughters and smiled. His long day of labour in his fields had finally come to an end. Although he could have moved into Nanking and lived in luxury, closer to the Heavenly King, as a reward for his exploits in the field of battle, he didn't want that. The only things he requested were to work in the fields with all the others, and be permitted, unlike the others, to live with his wife. His requests were granted by the Heavenly King himself.

One of his adopted daughters took his big, calloused hand, and he looked down into her doe-like eyes. Then he reached for his Hakka wife and said, in Farsi, “I am finally at home.” He wanted to touch her rounded belly, to feel the life within, but it was forbidden for men to touch their wives in public, just as so much else was forbidden in the lands of the Heavenly King.

* * *

“VRASSOON! Open the door to your God-forsaken house!” Richard's voice sounded foreign to him, as if it came from the other side of some great divide. He banged at the heavy door again, this time using the leather satchel he carried with him. The door opened and two well-muscled blond men stepped out. One put a bearpaw of a hand on his chest and pushed him firmly away from the door of the Vrassoons' private residence.

“Mr. Vrassoon doesn't see visitors on the Sabbath.”

Richard almost laughed. His smile was enough to draw a threatening look from the second of the two. “So you're his Shabbos goys?” Richard managed.

The men looked at each other, not sure if they had been insulted or not.

“You're more like his Shabbos apes, wouldn't ya say?”

That they understood unequivocally, and the blow that landed squarely on the point of Richard's jaw sent him careening down the polished steps. Even as his face splatted against the bottom stair he wanted to yell out,
Hell's bells, these steps are marble. Marble in China! Who in fucking hell needs marble in China?
Richard found himself on his feet, blood streaming down his face. “Get Vrassoon out here. Get his slimy eminence out here. We have some business to transact. Business enough to get him away from his imitation of religiosity.” The men stared at Richard. “Get him, now, you hunk of baboon turd!” It felt good to make a fuss in the lair of the Vrassoons—or even outside their lair. It felt good to muss their feathers. It felt good, but it didn't get him anywhere.

In fact it wasn't until the following Thursday that he was granted an audience with the Patriarch of the Vrassoon family.

The man's neatly trimmed beard and comfortable clothing belied the fury in his dark eyes. “You were rude at my door, and on the Sabbath. I would expect that from—”

“Yeah, yeah, but not from a Jew like me. Well, I'm a Jew like me, not a Jew like you, so can we skip that crap.” Even Richard was surprised by his own insolence, but it felt good.
Why did it feel so good to abuse this man?
He
thought of the doctored picture, and it was about to make him smile when an image came up in his mind. Himself as a boy giving something to this man. Not something—someone—who? He shook his head and noticed the man looking at him, through him.

“Do you need a drink? Your other vice, I'm afraid, I can't supply for you.”

Richard thought about that and nodded, the irony of the world's biggest opium trader having none of his own product in his home made him smile. Richard looked at the man's clear, hard eyes. He'd never experienced the dream. He didn't even know what he was selling—yet he sold it by the ton. He shook his head, “Thanks, but I only drink with friends, and as for my other vice, I … never mind.”

“Fine. What brings you here with such a heavy satchel? Another bargain you wish to strike?”

Richard hefted the satchel he had brought with him. “That's right, a bargain …” But he never completed his thought. He crumpled forward as laughter took him. It rolled up his throat and spat out into the room. Through his tears Richard saw the Vrassoon Patriarch eyeing the door of the room. “Don't leave, old man. Nah. The show's just beginning.” Richard reached for the heavy satchel, unbuttoned its clasp, and dumped the equivalent of two hundred and fifty pounds sterling on Eliazar Vrassoon's desk.

The older man hadn't moved a muscle. “And this would be?” the man asked, his voice suddenly rife with sibilance.

“The remainder of the money the Hordoon boys owe you, every last fucking penny of it.”

Vrassoon lifted a heavy eyebrow.

“Now give me back my debt note.”

The hand Richard held out shook. Something was wrong, and he knew it. He repeated his request, but the Vrassoon Patriarch didn't move.

“You've done very well, son.”

“I'm not your son,” Richard shouted. “Just give me back the debt note you bought from Barclays.”

“The lawyers need to look into a few things, but you should have your note by Thursday next.”

Richard wanted to ask
What things?
but he was suddenly exhausted. And there was something else he felt he needed from this man—something he had given him a long time ago.

Before he could think, he found himself out on Bubbling Spring Road, his noseless, earless female companion, Lily, offering an arm to steady his walk to the opium den.

* * *

PATTERSON ANSWERED Richard's summons first thing the next morning.

“So what do you think, Patterson?” Richard asked.

“Think of what, sir?”

“Of horses,” Richard said enigmatically.

Patterson resisted sighing. Was the heathen opiated again? Finally he said, “I'm quite fond of horses, sir.”

“Racehorses?” Richard asked.

Patterson stared at his employer. Was he drunk? “Racehorses? I would go so far as to say that I am extremely fond of racehorses.”

“Good, let's buy some.”

“They can run a pretty penny, sir.”

“Even better.”

Patterson didn't know what to make of the skinflint actually wanting to spend money. He mentioned, “Fine idea, sir. But there's no race course in Shanghai.”

“Racetrack,” Richard corrected him.

“Be that as it may, a place to race horses, sir. There's no such place here.”

“Aye, as you would say, Patterson, aye, that is true. Be that as it may, let's buy some racehorses, Patterson, spend a bit of our hard-earned profits.”

Patterson liked the idea of spending money. Especially money that was not his. But why did the addicted heathen want to spend it here in this God-forsaken place? Why not take it home and spend it? Then again, maybe this heathen had no home except here. God help him if that was the case. But then again, spending a bit of scratch could be fun—and he liked horses. “Where will we find the animals, sir?”