Shanghai (44 page)

Just as mysterious as the arrival of the boats was the seemingly magical and very sudden appearance of thousands of pamphlets in the crowd of onlookers.

Jiang grabbed one of the poorly printed things from the rickshaw boy beside her and read it quickly. “Behold what befalls those who have traffic in the Devil's drug. See and take warning what happens to those who do the Devil's work in the Heavenly Kingdom.” It was signed by the Heavenly King.

The Confucian looked at Jiang and said, “We'll meet tonight in the Warrens. Inform the Carver.”

—

“Not exactly an understated message, that,” remarked Percy St. John Dent as he poured himself a healthy glass of Hercules's very fine sherry.

“Well, no one ever claimed that the Taipingers were fond of any form of subtlety,” replied Hercules from his high-backed chair.

Percy took a tiny sip of the sherry and said, “Oh, very good, Hercules, very good indeed. So what exactly was the message meant to say, gentlemen?”

“Can't your interpreter read the pamphlet for you?” asked the Vrassoon Patriarch from behind his steepled fingers.

“Oh, that part of the message was clear enough. It's the other part of the message that bothers me,” said Richard abruptly reminding the others that he was in the room.

“What other part?”

“The unwritten part. The part that says that they can come and go whenever and wherever they please. That they have only left us alone up until now because they wanted to, not because they had to. That they live amongst us. They cook for us, clean our houses, move our goods, look after our children. That we are in their country not they in ours.”

What followed was a silence unlike any that the traders could remember. Their meetings were complicated, bombastic affairs, not contemplative meetings of minds, which suddenly this conclave had become.

Finally Oliphant asked, “Whose ships were they?”

“What does it matter?” asked Vrassoon. “The message they carried was evident and clear.”

“Perhaps, but if we knew …”

“Are you suggesting that we track down the shipowners and see who's doing business with the Taipingers? Look around you, here. We are all doing business with them. If we didn't, we couldn't exist,” said Hercules.

“This is mad. This is the act of a madman,” Percy said.

“Of a madman who thinks he is the brother of Jesus Christ,” scoffed Oliphant.

“Not a madman, just a religious man, like several of you in this room,” said Richard flatly. Then with a smile he added, “So madness is to be taken for granted.”

Oliphant immediately rose to the bait, but Vrassoon signalled him to sit down and turned to Richard. “We have had our differences in the past.”

“Really? What differences?”

“Fine, even had we been friends of the heart for years it makes no difference. We are both now facing a real danger to ourselves and our families and our businesses.”

“I am in the cotton business.”

“Ah, yes, the cotton business. A safe business. But what is to stop the Taipingers from next suggesting that all trade from the Middle Kingdom is to be done only by Chinamen? What's to stop them from doing that? Then what happens to your brilliant speculation and your tons of cotton? Do you think your Chinese workers would defend your cotton against the Taipingers? Would they risk being nailed to posts for your cotton?”

Richard reluctantly nodded agreement.

“Good,” said Eliazar Vrassoon, “then you'll contact your crazy brother? He's a man of some power and suasion in Taiping circles, I'm told. Go to him. Talk some sense into him.”

Richard looked out the window at the gathering clouds, then finally nodded again and said, “I'll set out tonight.”

—

“Why does Milo get to go and I have to stay?” complained Silas as he backed into a paddock to allow a large black horse past him.

Richard patted the animal's shining flank, then stroked the boy's hair and said, “Next time I'll take you.”

“But I want to see Uncle Maxi. It may be the last time—”

“It won't be!” Richard's voice was hard as granite. Then he softened as he said, “Don't worry. Your Uncle Maxi is indestructible. He'll be around for a long time yet. Patterson, are the supplies waiting for us?”

“They're all aboard, sir. Are you going to take horses too?”

“Just these two.”

“Done, sir.”

“Good. Come on, Silas, cheer up. With Milo and me gone, you're the head of the House of Hordoon, that's got to be worth something.” The boy tried to smile but managed only a rough approximation. His father grabbed him to his chest in a bear hug, then turned on his heel and left Silas alone with Patterson.

“Why couldn't I go too?” Silas whined as he kicked at the hay in the stables.

“Probably because monkey-lovers aren't wanted on the voyage,” Patterson said smoothly as he picked up the shovel and tossed it to Silas, with a simple command that made it perfectly clear who was in charge of the House of Hordoon while Richard was away. “Muck up, monkey-lover.”

* * *

RICHARD'S TRIP WITH MILO to Nanking was closely monitored by the Manchus. Their patrol boats, which controlled the lower stretches of the Yangtze, accompanied Richard's large junk right up to the disputed waters just west of the Grand Canal across from Chinkiang. Thereafter, for twelve hours, the junk sailed without escort. But on the following morning Taiping ships came up on either side of their boat and silently stayed to starboard and port all the way to Nanking, the seat of the Heavenly King.

To Richard's surprise the welcome in Nanking, although not effusive, was openly friendly. A modest banquet was set for him, followed by a performance of the History Teller's Peking Opera company's final act of
Journey to the West
. The entirety of the piece's seven acts took almost nine hours to perform, so usually only sections of it were acted at any given time. The section they showed this evening was the end, entitled “Partings.”

As the sun set, the presentation ended with the Serving Man turning away from the falling sun and striding off—back to his home in the East. The crowd was on its feet applauding the elegantly understated sorrow. As Richard leapt to his feet the actors stepped forward, turned, and applauded to their right. And there, to Richard's shock, was his brother Maxi—that damned red kerchief around his neck—stepping forward to accept the applause of both actors and audience as the patron of the company.

—

“So, I assume you are here to talk some sense into your wild, red-haired sibling, is't so, brother mine?”

“Aye.”

“Well, that could be something in the doing,” Maxi said, showing his full mouth of large, white teeth.

And then, suddenly, they were in each other's arms, hugging each other with an ardour that surprised them both. Then, just as suddenly an odd embarrassment came upon them and they each took a step back. An awkward silence followed, which Maxi finally broke.

“Milo looks a fine young man.”

“He is. Strong like you, and wild like you.”

“And Silas, why'd you not bring him too?”

Richard looked away. He really didn't know why he hadn't brought Silas with him, just a feeling. At last he said, “Someone has to look after the shop while I'm gone.”

“So you finally turned him into a businessman?” Maxi asked with open astonishment.

“Not really,” Richard replied. “He's a fine linguist, though, and could be of real use to us.”

“To you. There is no
us
any longer, brother mine.”

“But Maxi …”

“Do I have to set you on your keister in front of your son to prove my point? ‘Cause I will, if that's necessary. You promised me that I could go back if I didn't find what I wanted in our new business. Well I didn't find it, brother mine, so I moved back, to here.” He indicated his ripening fields of sorghum and soya beans and his large stand of bamboo. “And I'm happy here. Happier than I've been since we left India.”

“I see,” Richard said.

“I don't think you do. Look at this place. Look at my crops, and my wife, and our child. Look—allow yourself to really see, brother mine. This is the kind of place that could rid you of the opium addiction that rules you. I could help you. We could all help you here—and love you here, brother mine.”

—

His final night in Nanking, Richard dreamt of the old Hindu man who had surprised them in the alley of the town outside the Works at Ghazipur—and the man's curse of one brother murdering another rang in his ears until he forced himself from sleep and watched for hours as the sun rose over another dangerous day. He longed for the escape that only opium could offer
him. But it was not only the opium he wanted. He felt somehow incomplete—was it Maxi he missed? Perhaps. But more likely it was the constant, silent presence of Lily for which he longed.

—

Maxi kissed Milo on the cheek, then said to him, “Tell your brother I look forward to meeting him, now that he is a man like you.” He turned to Richard and said, “There is still time for you to decide to stay with us here.”

“There is still time for you to convince these people to stop this madness.”

“Stopping the selling of a drug that kills people is madness in your way of thinking? Opium is the Devil's drug.”

“You've been with these fanatics too long.”

“Perhaps. But you've also been with your fanatics too long too, brother mine.”

—

The History Teller watched the parting of the two White men on the south Nanking docks. As their leave-taking proceeded, words flew into her head:

On a dock, in sallow light,

Brothers say final goodbyes,

As men do to the world

From their death beds.

 

—

The Assassin watched the History Teller watching the two
Fan Kuei,
and for the first time in a long time he felt
blood fill the hood of the cobra that had been carved into his back. The snake arched up, and the Assassin's head snapped back as his arms pulled tight to his sides. To his surprise his right hand came forward holding the swalto blade that glinted in the fading light. The only word that came to him as he looked at the killing instrument in his hand was “hunger.” Yes, the snake on his back and the knife in his hand were hungry—hungry for blood.

—

Richard and Milo travelled back to Shanghai in almost total silence. A silence that was broken only by the few words needed between father and son to allow a day to proceed. Both felt the heavy weight of failure on their shoulders and the ominous movement of history. Milo even smelled the reek of ozone.

When they finally docked in the Pudong, Richard took a bumboat to the Bund and reported his failure to the traders gathered there. His report was greeted by another kind of silence. He stood there waiting for their comments. None was forthcoming. Finally he turned on his heel and left. No one moved to stop his going.

* * *

“WHAT DOES IT MATTER?” the Vrassoon Patriarch said to Hercules and Percy St. John Dent. “We will still need the Royal Navy—actually, we deserve the Royal Navy's support in this little matter. Her Majesty makes a fortune by taxing the tea we sell in England, tea that can only be bought from the Chinese with the money we make by selling them opium. And that tea tax
accounts for just under thirty-two percent of Her Majesty's annual taxation revenues.”

“That much?”

“Perhaps more. And that tax money pays for roads and schools and hospitals and orphanages and more ships for the Royal Navy. It pays for England itself. England is paid for with the proceeds from the opium that we sell to the Chinese. Make no mistake about that. And now it is time for England to do its fair share in this joint enterprise.”

“But with the Royal Navy?”

“Why not? What else are they doing at anchor in Hong Kong and Macao? It's time to show these rebels that it is one thing to defeat the Manchus but quite another to take on the forces of the British Empire.”

Percy smiled, and then added, “Perhaps a Sikh regiment would be a useful addition. I understand that they hate Celestials with a passion—something to do with religious differences.”

“Perhaps,” Vrassoon said, “perhaps Sikhs would be the ideal people to show these rebels what violence really looks like.” He paused and then added, “They might be of use should our dear Queen decide that the Manchu Empress needs a lesson as well.”

* * *

WHEN THE ROYAL NAVY began to arrive in force at the Bend in the River, Richard headed down to the Shanghai docks. He was pleased to find Admiral Gough was in charge of the military side of the mission. He was even more pleased when the Admiral remembered him and willingly took him onboard as an extra translator, and then insisted that he wear the uniform of a British lieutenant.

As Gough turned to more pressing business, Richard took the opportunity to explore the ship. There had been definite advancements from the vessel upon which he had sailed upriver in 1841. But the intent was the same—to terrorize. Every available space on the great sailing ship was devoted to armaments—every space except the forward hold, where, much to Richard's surprise, there were four billiards tables stacked one on top of another.

“The men need to be entertained, Mr. Hordoon,” said Gough from behind him.

“Sorry, sir,” Richard said. “I didn't know you were there.”

“Well I am.” He hesitated for a moment, then asked, “Is it true that your wild brother is a commander with the Taipingers?”

“So it would seem, sir.”

“Ah,” the Admiral said. “Well, a siege can be a very long process, and the greatest impediment to success can be boredom amongst the troops. Hence these billiards tables.”

“I see.” Richard smiled, then mused, “The click of billiards balls give dreadful note of preparation.”