The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (63 page)

Frank lifted what he thought was his cane to strike the fellow aside. Then he realised that he hadn't brought it. There was more laughter as his hand flapped inanely up and down. The young man kept his eyes on Frank's face.

‘I've had enough of this,' Frank growled. ‘Get out of my way.'

The man remained where he was.

This time Frank swung a clumsy punch at the man's head. The man ducked aside, easily avoiding the blow, while Frank found himself staggering, off balance. There were more catcalls from the onlookers.

With a roar of rage Frank threw himself forward, stretching out his arms to seize the man and throw him out of his way. As he hurtled forward, the man neatly stepped back, reached inside the folds of his tunic and pulled out a tasselled hatchet, which, in a graceful movement, he threw up into the air, caught, and with a downward strike, buried in Frank's chest.

This time there was silence from the bystanders. Frank looked down at the expanse of his white dress shirt and appeared to be studying the blood, which was seeping over it. Possibly he had noticed that it was of a similar colour to the crimson tassel on the hatchet. With some difficulty he brought up his hand to feel the weapon that was so incongruously attached to him. The tassel slipped through his limp fingers as more blood gushed out of his mouth, and he toppled onto his front.

For a moment the group stood still, a fascinated tableau around the body. Then, one by one, they slipped out of the circle and ran away. The Boxer paused a while, perhaps determining whether he should lift the heavy body and retrieve his axe. Leaving Frank untouched, however, he picked up his satchel, and ran with light steps under the
pailou,
and disappeared down one of the bisecting streets.

Frank's bloodshot eyes stared angrily down the road. After a while flies began to buzz around the sticky congealing substance that had stained his moustache and chin and was now filtering into the sand.

Thirteen

The foreigners cower behind their walls, but we are unafraid.

 

Herr Fischer was sitting at his map table, rehearsing in his head what he might better have said during his infuriating encounter with Manners that morning. His thoughts about that ‘damned Honourable' were as black as the contents of the big mug of coffee, which he was stirring with his spoon.

He had hardly slept the night before. He had fretted through the day over the nonarrival of the train from Tientsin. At two in the morning he had given up his vigil, and staggered to his tent. He had taken off his boots and changed into his red striped nightgown and cap, but hardly had his snores begun to flutter his whiskers or flicker the candle on the side table than he was being shaken awake again by the whistle of the locomotive and the hiss of steam as it settled into the sidings. He checked his watch: fifteen hours and twenty-two minutes late.

He had found the engineer Bowers incoherent with exhaustion. His explanation of the delay had consisted of a confused mutter about obstacles on the line and crowds of angry peasants throwing stones. There had been no use in interrogating the dour, bearded fellow in this state so Fischer had sent him straight to his quarters where he was still sleeping. He had been impressed, however, by the professionalism of the man. Despite his tiredness, Bowers had spent another twenty minutes shunting the engine and guard's van round the loop, repositioning them at opposite ends of the train, so that when it left the next day on its return to Tientsin the engine would be proudly pulling from the front in a manner that would make the punctilious Herr Fischer proud.

There had been few passengers on the train. The Chinese on board had gathered their bundles and disappeared into the night. The American missionary, Burton Fielding, the only passenger in first-class, had also been uncommunicative, and had left quickly for the Airtons' in the mule cart that had been waiting for him all the previous day.

Fischer and Charlie had inspected the engine and carriages in the lantern-light, locking the doors of the carriages, securing the brake in the van, uncoupling the engine before banking the fire in the firebox. The pale orange of pre-dawn was already illuminating the sky before they had finished their various duties.

It was while he was making his way back to his quarters for a shave and a wash that he saw Manners coming out of his tent, followed by a European boy with a tousled head and a Chinese woman dressed in an elegant blue gown. Herr Fischer was not a stupid man, and he prided himself on his keen powers of observation and analysis, the indispensable attributes of a senior engineer. And he was also objective enough, he believed, to look facts squarely in the face. A single glance was enough to assess the situation, and closer examination of the detail merely reinforced his hypothesis. The conclusive evidence was provided by the paint on the woman's face and her fully combed headdress, tinkling with ornaments. Her profession could not have been clearer if she had held up a sign with her portrait on it. And there were even traces of eye makeup on the boy, who was wearing embroidered silk pyjamas! He had wondered for a moment how a foreign boy of this persuasion could have got to Shishan. Then he dimly recalled that Charlie had once told him of the people-smuggling business that went on in Shanghai and in the south of China. Was there any wickedness, however improbable or ingenious, of which Manners was not capable? Herr Fischer composed his features into what he hoped was the magisterial expression of a Cato or Cicero. His shoulders stiffened as he prepared his stern and sad rebuke—but before he had a chance to speak, Manners, far from showing any guilt or remorse or discomfort at being found out, merely raised his hat.

‘Morning, Fischer,' he had greeted him brazenly. ‘Good day for a ride, don't you think? I see the train's come in. That's good. I've some passengers for you.'

The tower of dignified oration that Fischer had been constructing tumbled, and what emerged was a disconnected rockslide of recrimination and complaint. How dare Mr Manners take that impudent tone? Had he no shame? Did Mr Manners not care about his family name? He demanded an explanation of this latest outrage. He knew that the Englishman was debauched, but never before had he dared to bring his fancy women to the railway camp. Not to mention this painted boy, this—Ganymede! It was clear that the three of them had spent the night together in the tent in contravention of morality, civilised behaviour, and the rules of the railway company. Even Manners could not deny this. Herr Fischer had discovered him
in flagrante delicto
 …

‘You do have a prurient imagination,' the man had replied, with a hateful coolness. ‘If you were to observe a little more closely you would notice that there are two camp beds on the ground outside the tent. Hiram spent the night in one, and I in the other. Very peacefully, I might add. I think that you owe our guests an apology, old boy.'

And then he had insolently proceeded to introduce the creatures—as formally as if they had all been at a cocktail reception—as his friends, Miss Fan Yimei, who was preparing for a journey to Tientsin, and Master Hiram (he did not give a surname), her companion.

‘I had intended to explain it all to you at a more appropriate time,' he had continued, unabashed by the scowl of disapproval on Herr Fischer's face. ‘I am certain that when you understand the circumstances you will appreciate that discretion is involved, and you will be as eager as I am to help.'

‘Discretion, Mr Manners?' In his anger Herr Fischer had attempted a heavy irony. ‘For your paramours? You are asking me to provide a private compartment on the train for their disportings perhaps? With curtains and a double bunk?'

‘I am not discussing ticketing arrangements. In fact, I don't think it's the time or place to be talking about this at all. You appear a little tired, Herr Fischer, and I promised my friends that I would take them riding. I'll call on you later in the day, when you are calmer.'

At which point Herr Fischer had lost his temper completely. ‘Yes, I will talk to you later in the day, Mr Honourable Manners,' he had shouted. ‘You have gone far enough. It is not only these disreputable people whom you have brought to our railway. You have from the moment you have arrived my authority flouted, and treated the corporation which employs you with contempt. And, what is more, you have done no work. You are—' His mind whirled to think of a suitable word to describe his disdain. ‘You are a passenger here, Mr Manners. I am writing to the board once and for all. You are discharged, Mr Manners. I discharge you, do you hear me? Now and here!'

‘Then you'll have no objection if I take my friends for a ride?' The man had smiled at him. And sauntered past him in the direction of the stables, his two companions glancing with nervous curiosity at him as they sidled past.

Well, he
would
sack Manners, Fischer decided, as he stirred his coffee. He did not care what authority was protecting him. He would take the matter to the highest levels. Even if the consequence was his own resignation. It was intolerable! The man was his subordinate yet he had no idea what he got up to during his long absences in town. He was certain that whatever Manners was discussing with the Mandarin was of no benefit to the railway. He was dubious that such a relationship even existed; he rather suspected that Manners wasted his whole time in that infamous bordello where he had once had the temerity to take Charlie, poor fellow.

Why the railway board had sent Manners to Shishan in the first place was beyond his understanding. He suspected that there was something Oriental behind it all, favours being exchanged or some other typical intrigue. Whatever the reason, it was damnable that he, Fischer, had been used, however passively, in these machinations. He,
Gott sei Dank,
was a simple engineer, with a set task, a budget and a timetable to complete. He would do his duty as a professional—and no more. ‘From now on, no more,' he said to himself. ‘I am no
Junker
Honourable—but I know my duty, and I have my honour too.'

He took a big sip of coffee and scalded his tongue. This did nothing for his temper, so when Charlie burst into the tent, he shouted at him uncharacteristically to get out, and if he had to come in again, to knock first like a civilised human being.

Charlie ignored him. His face showed none of its usual irony or humour. The staring eyes and twitching lips revealed a man who was badly scared. His voice was calm, however: he was obviously calling on all his reserves of strength and self-control. ‘You are needed now, Herr Fischer. The workers—we have a strike on our hands, and I cannot control it.'

This brought Herr Fischer immediately to his feet, all thoughts of Manners forgotten in the emergency. ‘What are they doing now?' he asked briskly.

‘Some are stoning the train. Others are pulling up the rails that lead to the bridge.'

‘Better in that direction than the line to the tunnel and Tientsin. Who is leading them?'

‘The foreman, Zhang Haobin.'

‘Lao Zhang? But he's not a troublemaker.'

He started for the door. Then, reconsidering, he returned to his desk, pulled a revolver from a drawer and stuffed it into his belt. He gathered a hunting rifle and some cartridges from the rack by the wall. ‘Do you use these?' he grunted at Charlie. The Chinese shook his head, his expression of distaste. ‘Then carry them to Mr Bowers's tent. Wake him if he is sleeping and tell him to join me immediately. I wait for you here. Be quick now.'

Charlie ran on his errand. Herr Fischer looked carefully round the tent. He swept up some papers and knelt by the Chubb, turned the combination to open the big metal safe. He stuffed the papers inside, then pulled out a wad of American dollar bills, which he put into his pocket. As an afterthought he reached for the black book in which he meticulously kept the accounts and, with some tearing of the lining, squeezed it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He locked the safe, grabbed another rifle and cartridge case from the rack, and walked, with a deliberate step, to the door.

It was the silence that struck him as ominous. There were none of the ordinary sounds of the camp. From his commanding position he could look down on to the track and the bridge. A crowd of coolies and earth-carriers were milling about, without any particular purpose that he could identify. Then he observed that the majority of them were watching some of his railway workers under the direction of Zhang Haobin heaving with iron bars at the rails and the sleepers. There was the clear tinkle of metal against metal, which carried over the still morning air, but otherwise no sound—not even a shout. Certainly not the roar of a mob of angry workers, calling out their grievances and demands. The funnel and steam dome of the engine were visible behind the tents to his right, and from that direction he also heard a clattering of stones on metal—but, again, no human voices raised in anger.

Puzzled, he occupied himself by loading his revolver and his rifle. After a few minutes Charlie returned with Bowers, looking incongruously formal in his blue, brass-buttoned jacket, and high-peaked cap. The rifle slung over his shoulder, his upright bearing, the black beard and solemn face reminded Herr Fischer of a police constable. He wished that he had one or two real policemen at his command.

‘Good man, Bowers. You slept well?'

‘Adequately, sir,' answered the sombre fellow.

‘Then you are ready to join me for a little conversation with these hooligans here?'

‘I'll be happy enough if we can prevent them from damaging my engine.'

‘Excellent,' said Herr Fischer. ‘We take a stroll together,
ja
? Come on, Charlie, lead the way.'

The three moved slowly down the hill, Charlie glancing nervously from side to side.

‘There is nobody who is with us?' Fischer asked Charlie quietly.

‘Not this time. They're all in on it, or intimidated into it.'