The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (12 page)

Tom and Manners were becoming firm friends. They would ride side by side, Tom listening in rapt attention as Manners described his hunting expeditions in the Deccan and the Himalayan foothills. Sometimes they would race each other, and Helen Frances would see the eager delight on Tom's face as he tried to outpace his companion. She herself was quite content to ride slowly with the baggage train, feeling the wind on her face, gazing dreamily around her at the endless expanse of grass under a cloudless sky or listening to the wild songs of the porters.

In the evenings, as they sat round the campfire, Henry Manners was surprisingly good company. Tom had been right: he had wonderful stories to tell, about the Hindu temples overrun by monkeys and creepers that he had discovered in the Indian jungles, the rock carvings of terrifying gods and the Thuggee cult, which he insisted could still be found in the more remote mountains and forests. He described the magnificent palaces in Delhi and Agra; expeditions against the wild tribes of the Northwest Frontier; the ludicrous social whirl at Simla, the modest hill station that was transformed when the Viceroy and his court ascended to escape the summer heat. He talked of his years in Japan. He would not be drawn on the details of his military advisership to the Meiji army, but he spoke of the gardens and temples, the Buddha at Kamakura, the deer park at Nara, the beauty of the coast road on the Inland Sea, Mount Fuji, and the strange rituals of the Japanese Court. He spoke with an enthusiasm and a tolerance of strange places that seemed quite at odds with the cynical, wordly manner he had displayed in Peking. Yet interspersed with his reminiscences were casual references to acquaintances whose names Helen Frances had only seen in newspapers—politicians like George Curzon and Arthur Balfour, writers like Bernard Shaw and Max Beerbohm, theatrical lights like Sarah Bernhardt, Ellen Terry and Beerbohm Tree—all of which indicated that Manners was used to moving in a racy social milieu well above her own. She even understood that he had attended levees with the Prince of Wales—Bertie, as he called him—before his mysterious transfer from the Guards to the Royal Engineers and a posting to India in the early nineties. To Helen Frances this English aristocratic world was as exotic as the bright starlight of the Asian night, and far more intimidating. Yet never once did Manners boast or show any sign of superiority. In fact, she was beginning to wonder if she had imagined the predatory flirtatiousness that had coloured her impression of him since she first met him in Peking. He was as charming and solicitous to her, and certainly as gentlemanly, as Tom. But Tom, who in age, she guessed, was only a few years younger than Manners, seemed as gauche as a schoolboy in comparison, as with eager, almost fawning, curiosity he begged more stories about Manners's colourful past, hanging on his every word.

On the afternoon of the third day the country changed from flat plain to gentle hills, and they found themselves riding through orchards of apple trees and cultivated farms. Familiar oaks and elm trees grew in clumps on the hillsides. Blue-coated peasants scythed in the millet fields, or drove donkey carts down the rutted tracks. Villages were more common, and on that night and the next, the porters elected to stay in caravanserais specially built for mule trains and travellers. The three Europeans, unwilling to sleep in the smoky rooms with the muleteers stretched together on filthy
kangs,
had their tents put up in the courtyard outside but, ever wary of stories of bandits and robbers, they were glad of the thick mud walls that gave them an illusory protection from any supposed menace in the village outside. Helen Frances found it thrilling to be sitting among the wagons under the stars, with the giant shadows of the muleteers moving across the bright oil-paper windows and the strains of a whining stringed instrument inside. It reminded her of the inn scene in
Don Quixote
or one of the medieval romances she had read as a girl.

She found herself fascinated by every detail of the ancient peasant life going on around her, and it was with some excitement that she greeted the news from Manners on the fifth day that they would soon be approaching the first walled city on their route, Fuxin. He told her that this was where the founder of the Manchu nation, Nurhachi, had set up a western outpost, and it was where one of his nephews, a grand duke, was buried. He told her that the city would not be dissimilar in appearance to their eventual destination, Shishan.

The towers on the walls loomed from some distance away. It was a small city perched on a hill. The walls were like the great edifices in Peking but on a smaller scale. On a lower outcrop to the west stood an ancient pagoda. Tom and Helen Frances talked excitedly about what they would buy in the marketplace. The road was thickening with people as they approached the great gateway, which they could see in front of them about five hundred yards away. Manners had ridden ahead that morning with Lao Zhao so that he could negotiate supplies and accommodations before the arrival of the main caravan. They were startled to see him now galloping back out of the gate, scattering people as he rode. Their attention was diverted suddenly by the loud cry of many voices to their left. There, on a smooth parade-ground, which lay between them and the approaching figure of Manners, was gathered a large crowd of people ringing an open space. From the height of their horses they could look over the heads of the throng to see the activity in the middle. Helen Frances was puzzled for a moment, and could not understand what was happening. Ten or eleven men were kneeling on the ground, their arms pulled behind them by burly men stripped to the waist. Other men were standing in front of the kneeling figures pulling their pigtails forward so the bare necks were exposed. A grey-haired man in blue robes was standing prominently among a knot of robed officials reading from a scroll in a high-pitched quavering voice. Then he signalled and a group of giant men, also stripped to the waist but holding long, curved swords, stepped forward, each one taking a position by the side of one of the kneeling men.

‘Oh, my God, HF, look away,' cried Tom.

But Helen Frances could not turn her eyes from the scene. The grey-haired man raised his hand and the blades wielded by the giant men rose in the air.
‘Chie-e!'
screeched the man in the blue robe, and the blades came down in smooth arcs. Eleven heads seemed to bounce from the bodies, which collapsed, then rolled to a stop in the sand. There was a shout of satisfaction from the crowd. Blood was spurting in jets from the decapitated bodies. Helen Frances, stunned by what she had seen, tears of shock forming in her eyes, swung her head away from the spectacle. She saw their own porters craning in their saddles, laughing and grinning among themselves. In a panic—anything to get away—she pulled on the reins of her pony, and drove it into a wild canter down the road, ignoring the shouts of Tom behind her.

At that moment Manners reached them. He was in the act of reining in when he saw Helen Frances break away. Instead he kicked his horse on after her, reaching for her dangling reins. For a while the two horses cantered crazily together, then slowly, Manners managed to pull them both to a stop. Keeping hold of both reins he swung himself off his own horse, then with his other arm reached up and pulled Helen Frances down off hers. She was gasping with hysteria. Manners steadied her, and pulled her to his chest, stroking her hair and murmuring, ‘All right. All right. You're all right. All right.'

Tom, his eyes wide in an agonised face, ran up to them, then hovered, not knowing what to do.

‘Come on, man, take her,' said Manners. ‘Hold her tight for a while. She's in shock.'

Gently, he passed Helen Frances to Tom. She felt herself gathered into his strong arms. Her body was shaking uncontrollably. She tried to break away. Her nails scratched Tom's back, then she slumped and her breathing gradually slowed.

‘I tried to get to you to warn you. We'd better not stay here, Cabot. Press on. Foreigners aren't exactly in good odour in Fuxin at the moment.'

‘Who were they, Manners? What's happening?'

‘I'll tell you later. Better get going now. Can you lift her on to your own horse? Ride behind her for a while? Good. There's Lao Zhao with the provisions. We'd better head off straightaway.'

The porters had turned the caravan, and steadied the horses. Manners and Lao Zhao lifted Helen Frances tenderly into Tom's saddle where he put a protective arm around her waist. The road on either side was lined with a silent crowd. The mob who had witnessed the execution had seen the foreigners and were now gathering ominously.

‘All right,' said Manners. ‘Quietly now. Lao Zhao,
zoule!'

Lao Zhao jerked his reins, at the same time clouting the leading pack mule with his stick. The caravan clattered off in the direction from which it had come, leaving the silent, hostile populace of Fuxin behind them.

After a mile they turned off the road to make a detour through the millet fields in a large circle round the city. Helen Frances had calmed down enough for Manners to suggest that it would be safe for her to ride her own horse. They rode on well into dusk and that night they camped by the side of the road. Helen Frances went to her tent early, leaving Tom and Manners to smoke cigars by the fire.

‘She's a plucky girl, Cabot,' said Manners. ‘As I've told you before, you're a lucky man.'

‘What happened back there? I've seen executions before. They're nasty affairs, but I've never known such an atmosphere.'

‘There was a riot a while back. Merchant was murdered. A Christian, it seems. Authorities came down heavily. Some of the people executed were popular figures in the town. Maybe they blamed the foreigners in some way. Fault of the Christians or something.'

‘My God, Manners. It wasn't Boxers, was it?'

‘Boxers? Who knows? What's a Boxer? People in this country have enough to be miserable about anyway and are quite capable of rising up on their own account. Apparently this merchant who died was cheating the townsfolk by mixing his grains with animal feed. All part of the general corruption of China. Sometimes they don't get away with it.'

‘My God, what are we going to tell HF?'

‘Don't tell her anything. If she lives in China long enough she'll have her fill of executions. The first time is rather shocking. She'll get over it. Tell her it's a matter of law and order, as my friend, Sir Claude, so preciously likes to put it.'

‘Are we safe?'

‘Yes, we're safe. We have these, don't we?' Manners patted his rifle, which was leaning against his saddle by his side. ‘You're always safe with Mr Remington.'

Next day it rained. The road became muddy and they made slower pace. Helen Frances was still pale from her experience but had recovered enough to put on a brave front and apologise to the two men for what she called her pathetic behaviour the previous afternoon. By the afternoon she seemed restored to her usual good humour, but the rain and the heavy clouds oppressed their spirits, and they were glad to make camp. The ground was rising. They had reached the lower slopes of the Black Hills. ‘Tomorrow we should be in the forest,' said Manners, ‘then it's one day's more riding and we'll arrive in Shishan.'

She had a restless night, and light rain pattered on the canvas. She had overcome the first horror of what she had seen the day before and now was trying to persuade herself that it was merely one of the adventures she had looked forward to when she left Sussex. ‘What did you expect, old girl?' she said to herself in her father's voice, which she always found reassuring. She only had a dim memory of what had happened after the swords had fallen. She remembered riding away, and she also remembered a feeling of respite when Manners had held her and tried to calm her. She remembered him stroking her hair. He had been so gentle. Had he briefly kissed her forehead? She could not recall. How strange that she had panicked when he had passed her over to Tom. ‘Sleep, girl, sleep,' she imagined her father saying to her. ‘Get some sleep.' And eventually, fitfully, she did.

*   *   *

She woke early. She could hear birds singing and she saw the early-morning sun reflected on the roof of her tent. She wanted to relieve herself before the others were up so, pulling a shawl around her shoulders, she untied the flap and crawled out on to the wet grass. She looked up and screamed.

Not ten paces away from her a man was standing by the bushes. He was dressed like a priest, with a bald head and the white gaiters, staff and begging bowl she had come to recognise as the usual habit of mendicant holy men. He was not wearing the usual brown or saffron robes, however. Instead his robe was multicoloured, with stars and suns and blood-red characters woven round a general pattern of pomegranates. What shocked her, however, was his face, which was pale, fleshy, ageless, unlined. He seemed to be staring intently at her, but when she looked into his eyes, she saw that they were pupil-less, white cavities. His lips were curled in a malevolent, toothless, tongueless grin. There seemed to be nothing inside his skull. Noiselessly, he stepped behind the bushes and was gone.

Manners was out of his tent first, a revolver in his hand, followed shortly by Tom and the muleteers. They searched extensively in the bushes and in the woods behind, but could find no sign of the priest.

‘I did see him, Tom. I did, you know,' she told him.

‘Of course you did, old girl,' said Tom. ‘Of course you did.'

‘Let's get away from here,' said Manners. ‘We'll have breakfast further on.'

Quickly they broke camp and headed up the dark path into the forest of the Black Hills.

Three

Lao Tian says the firecarts have eaten up the business of the canals and there is no haulage work left to do.

 

The Tian Le Yuan, the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure, was not the only brothel in Shishan, but it was the best one. The girls were beautiful and cultivated in all the arts, not only the amatory ones: they could sing, dance, recite poetry, and play the
pi'pa,
zither and flute. The cooks were ingenious, the food was renowned; there were baths and steam rooms and miniature gardens, even a small library; the divan served best-quality opium; and, most important of all, customers knew that they could count on Mother Liu's discretion. For the merchants of Shishan it was the only place to entertain.