Le Colonial (12 page)

“Lift his head,” the mandarin said to Wang. “I want to see the face of my enemy.”

The prisoner looked up, and the onlookers in the balcony, like a chorus of singers, uttered a fitful moan. The rebel’s blood-streaked face was mostly covered by his long, black, wavy hair. Yet through the thick tresses his eyes were burning with defiance. His full lips, parched by thirst and the beating sun, parted to bare a mischievous grin.

Wang broke the tension. “Do you recognize this man, Your Highness?”

TuyBn pushed himself up from the carved wooden chair, strutted around the desk, and advanced until he was inches away from the cage. Poking his fan through the closely spaced bamboo bars, TuyBn replied with mild amusement, “It has been two years, but he has changed little. I never forget the brazen face of a scoundrel.”

Peals of laughter broke out above him, echoing among the timber columns. TuyBn nodded in satisfaction: here within the glittering city, its rich citizens were still on his side. But before he could draw another breath to savor his victory, the gleeful noise above him was cut short.

The convict grabbed the horizontal rods above his head. With a hoarse cry he sprang up from his crouched position, breaking his jail apart with a loud crash. Mandarin TuyBn gasped, blinking. His enemy tossed the cage’s ceiling toward Wang, the casino owner, who leaped and kicked his legs wide. Catching the structure with one hand, Wang ripped it apart with the other. Concealed within each of the hollow bamboo bars was a long, thin blade. Wang hurled the weapons to his warriors while the prisoner tore apart the yoke around his neck.

What followed happened so fast and with such precision that every detail must have been choreographed by a grand kung-fu master. Mandarin TuyBn could hear the clashing of swords all around him as his guards engaged the intruders, while the spectators wailed above. In their desperate attempt to escape through the narrow staircases, people pushed one another with such force that a portion of the banister broke away. Shattered pieces of wood and bodies came hurtling to the main floor. A few clung to the remaining rails until their strength gave way and they, too, smashed to the ground.

On the floor below, the former prisoner reached for TuyBn’s throat, but the mandarin staggered a few steps back. The rebel’s hand seized the front of his uniform, tearing away the phoenix symbol of his rank. With a whimper, TuyBn fell to the ground.

One of the guards thrust his spear toward the escaped convict. NhCc twisted his body away and, at the same time, grabbed the shackle that bound his ankle. He lunged forward, flung the heavy ball over his head, and smashed it against the thronelike armchair. The sturdy piece of furniture broke into pieces, and the massive orb made a dent in the wooden floor.

Metal javelins shimmered through the air as TuyBn crawled on hands and knees away from the mayhem. He saw the bandit swing his weapon once again, this time aiming it at the guard with the spear. A hollow crack and the soldier sank to his knees like a wedge being driven into a board. Blood from his fractured skull sprayed the mandarin. Too frightened to move, TuyBn huddled in a fetal position. His lips were moving, but he could not hear his own voice.

All around the two men, the fight continued, until one by one the guards of Quinion City were overpowered. The pastel walls were streaked with crimson, blood dripping slowly in the hot sunlight. Body parts and the wounded were scattered about the hall. The coppery smell of blood attracted flies, and before long the buzzing of their wings replaced the screams of the rioting men.

The convict towered over the crawling mandarin, dangling his ball and chain inches over TuyBn’s frightened face to stop him from moving any farther. TuyBn could not look at the bits of flesh that adhered to the gruesome sphere. Instead he looked up at his opponent’s wicked grin, which seemed to mock his piteous supplication. The bandit grabbed TuyBn by the collar of his inner shirt and lifted him to his feet. “Now, as promised, I’ve come for my ransom,” he said.

The stately doors of the community hall were flung open, and more of Mandarin TuyBn’s guards appeared beyond the threshold, bristling with weaponry. NhCc stepped forward, pulling his prisoner by the collar.

“Put down your swords,” he said. His voice boomed like the striking of a gong. “Do it now, or I shall take his life.”

He raised the metal ball. Mandarin TuyBn closed his eyes when he heard the first sound of weapons dropping on the pavement. The battle was over.

On the highest parapet of the fortification, the rebels’ solid red flag billowed in the wind. Underneath it, the earth undulated with hordes of people flowing in all directions. All were pushing and shoving; none had the slightest idea of what to do or which way to run, but the main tidal wave of people kept pouring toward the city’s exits.

With his head locked in the bandit’s brawny arm, Mandarin TuyBn was dragged along the concrete road that led to the north gate. His soldiers stood helplessly at either side, their palms opened, defenseless. Fragments of brass shoulder pieces and breastplates lay scattered on the ground. TuyBn tripped over an iron spearhead, and its sharp blade stabbed the side of his foot.

Warm blood seeped from his handmade shoe and smeared the pavement. The mandarin found, to his surprise, that his mind remained quite lucid in spite of the throbbing wound. He did not try to escape the viselike grip because he knew any attempt on his part would be like trying to break a rock with an egg. His face was inches from the rippling muscles of his captor’s arm, so close that he could smell the man’s perspiration. Fearful of the iron ball, he resisted the urge to scratch and bite.

They stopped a hundred feet from the ancient gate that marked the boundaries of the city. On its surface, the wooden carvings of the mystical animals, once so regal, were now weathered with time. Even in the bright sun, the mandarin could not distinguish one figure from the next. He remembered a time when he had wanted to restore this entrance to its former beauty. Now the chance was gone forever.

Upon a signal, the men hauled back a sturdy log that bolted the entry. The untamed beating of the bronze drums, the fierce shrieks of the brass horns, and the rhythmic thumps of approaching horsemen rose to a crescendo as the two heavy panels creaked open. What waited behind the great wall was beyond Mandarin TuyBn’s wildest imaginings.

Standing before them were thousands of peasant soldiers, each carrying a crude weapon. In the center of the crowd, soaring over everyone, was a man perched high on an elephant. The wind rippled through his hair. His broad eyebrows slanted up toward his temples like two dark blades. He rode the animal bareback, commanding it with only his voice. On the ground, his followers chanted, “King NhCc, King NhCc, King NhCc . . .”

Around Mandarin TuyBn, Wang and his men fell to their knees at the sight of their leader. The bewildered mandarin could not understand what he was seeing. He had been led to believe that the man in the cage was NhCc. Blinking, he looked from his captor to the man on the elephant.

As if reading his thoughts, the rebel by his side laughed. “What did you expect, TuyBn?” he said. “Surely you did not think that our king of the poor would risk his life and be trapped in a cage, did you? My name is Thom. I am his younger brother.” And to his soldiers, he pounded his fist in the air and shouted, “Quinion is ours. Hue Citadel is next!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hue City, December
1775

O
n the day of his execution, François woke early.

In a dark prison cell behind the soldiers’ quarters inside King Due Tong’s palace, he sat against the cement wall. The peasant shirt he wore was ripped at the back, and his bare skin was pressed against the chilly blocks of stone. A shaft of light, broken up like tendrils of fog, wafted into the room through a small rectangular porthole set high on the wall, near the ceiling. The early sun painted the metal spikes and barbed wires of the window in a faint red glow.

The journey from Kim Lai Village to Quinion, then on to Hue City, had taken more than a week. He was bruised, scraped, and blistered from being transported, along with Henri and their five Annamese disciples, inside a splintery cage drawn over pitted roads in a horse-drawn cart. Their meals were infrequent, and they were denied even the most primitive means to relieve themselves. François felt light-headed and repulsed by his own odor, which stirred in him the memory of Villeneuve and his bout with cholera. But this time his main concerns were not for himself but for his companions.

He hoisted himself up to meet the sunlight. His feet were fettered inside the round openings of two wooden planks fastened together. Each time he tried to move, the sharp inner metal rings around his ankles would dig into his flesh. François gritted his teeth against the pain. For his last morning on Earth, he longed for the warm touch of the sun on his face. Silently and methodically he prayed, reciting the familiar chants in his head, reassuring himself that he was not alone. The destruction of his mission in Kim Lai, the murder of Sister Regina, the uncertain fate of Sisters Natalia and Lucía, and his own impending end—surely these horrifying experiences must be part of God’s unseen plan.

Around him lay the dark outlines of eleven other prisoners, clutching one another, motionless. Most of them were men. But here and there he saw the feminine curve of a breast rising under the loose garments. Like the men, the women were bound and shackled. Dawn was now robust enough for him to discern the cuts and bruises on the prisoners’ limbs; some of the injuries had begun to fester. On his face, he could feel the tingling sensation where the sun touched his skin, like a torch. Next to him and sharing the same shackle was his sixteen-year-old novice, Henri. The boy was still asleep. His mouth was open, emitting a soft wheezing noise that sounded like a teakettle whistling.

With his bound hands, François scratched his shaven head, feeling a twinge of envy. He had never seen Henri exhibit any signs of fear, even when their death sentences had been pronounced. He believed that the novice was too young to fathom the terror of what was to come. Or did he simply accept his fate? François closed his eyes and tried to pray.

As much as he had tried to envision his death, he couldn’t. He saw himself painting the most spectacular work he could ever imagine as an artist in a cathedral, and he saw himself growing old. He felt that when his final hour arrived, it would be the most fulfilled and completed experience, and not delivered at the hands of an executioner. Because of this presentiment, reinforced by his unwavering faith, fear had not yet consumed him.

He had always associated heaven with blissful harps played by angels, whom he had only seen in paintings and heard in dreams. In his mind he saw paradise as the ultimate freedom of his spirit, an eternal existence devoid of suffering, but only to be achieved after he had completed his mission on Earth. He had one regret: that he had never visited the Holy See in Rome to ask Pope Clement XIV to bless him. There should be another chance for him. It couldn’t end this way.

He heard his name called, and the warmth of the sunlight disappeared from his closed eyes. When he opened them, Henri was waving his large hand in front of him. Outside, a horse neighed. François gazed at the novice and summoned a smile. With his stocky frame and already six feet in height, the youth seemed like a giant compared to the others. His cheeks blushed from the cold. At a slight angle, François could see the blond fuzz outlining Henri’s jaw, reflecting highlights as if a thin layer of gold dust were sprinkled on his face.

The novice adjusted his tattered garments with his trussed hands. The Annamite prisoners were also waking up. Only five of them had been arrested with Henri and François. The rest had been detained for other crimes. Among his disciples, François was especially concerned for the youngest, LGc. The boy was as sound as a bull, but a bull with no horns, for he was still growing. Two front teeth were missing from his mouth. The wounds in his gum had become infected, causing his upper lip to swell to twice its normal size. In a cracked adolescent voice he cursed at the guards and pounded his fists against the rock wall, shaking dust loose from the ceiling. Droplets of saliva flew from the gap in his mouth and sprayed with his slurred speech.

The rest of the prisoners scrambled to their feet, wailing and trying to keep the dust out of their eyes. A ripple of tension ran through the dungeon as a loud gong rang out, followed by a series of drumbeats. These strident sounds intensified until the walls that detained the prisoners shuddered and the ground vibrated. The significance of the noise was clear: it signaled their execution.

With help from Henri, François stood. Locked in the same wooden shackle, the two men had to move in unison. The time had come for him to confront his destiny. The thought made him weak at the knees. He bit his lower lip and drew a deep breath, then felt Henri’s hands pressing against his fingers.

“Pray to God, dear son,” he whispered.

The iron door of the cell creaked on its hinges. From a corner, a woman cried out in fright. The guards’ footsteps were getting louder. He could hear the reverberation of the men’s flat-soled sandals in the cement floor. He resisted the impulse to turn away: he did not want his followers, especially Henri, to see his fear. It was imperative that he, an ordained priest, set a good example. Besides, he still had hope in the mercy of God.

The sunny morning flooded the room as the door swung open. He stared at the entrance, concentrating on the faces that looked back at him. Most of the soldiers were young, their taut bodies clad in the imperial red uniforms and conical hats. They wielded gleaming metal swords in their hands.

“Get up,” they roared, even though the prisoners were already on their feet.

Following the soldiers, two male servants pushed in a farm cart, raising a cloud of dust from the dirt road behind them. The wagon held two barrels, each hollowed from the trunk of an oak tree. Once the heavy lids were removed, the smell of stale rice soured the chilly air. As the men drew near, François also detected the aroma of salted fish, and his mouth salivated. The primal urge to satisfy his hunger surpassed the horror of death. Perhaps it was thoughtless to crave food in his last few hours; but he was, after all, still a human being, and he had not eaten for days.

One of the kitchen help, a thin man with skin so dark he seemed to be made from soot, announced, “Dead men’s last meal. Come forth for your rations!”

He grinned at the foreign men, waving the wooden ladle toward them. His partner counted the inmates over the steamy mist that rose from the cauldrons. Inside the pot of soup, which was still bubbling, fish heads bobbed in a murky broth.

He looked at the pushcart, at the guards, and then at the servants. There were no plates or spoons in sight. No one offered the prisoners any tools to hold the food. But that did not seem to bother anyone except him. Bound together, the inmates shuffled forward in pairs. LGc leaned against the wagon of food, hitched up his shirt, and sniffed the air. The bony kitchener shoved his ladle in the rice container to scoop up a healthy serving and dumped it in the shirttail of the hungry youth. Next, the other cook pierced a piece of salted fish using the sharp ends of his chopsticks, piled it on the rice, and then topped it with a spoonful of thick soup. Soon it was François’s turn to face the wheelbarrow. He watched the thin man cackle, a toothless grin over the barrel of rice.

The priest flushed red. There was no need for this cruel treatment, he felt. He turned and looked at LGc. All the boy could do was grab his shirt with his bound hands and bend his head, shoving his wounded mouth into the food like a beast. The broth seeped through his clothing and dribbled down his thin rib cage. François’s stomach gave a painful twist.

“Move along, foreigner,” the kitchen servant said, flicking a few specks of rice at François with his thumb and forefinger. His smile revealed his blackened teeth. “You want to eat or not?”

“I cannot,” François said, looking down at his filthy shirt.

“No place to hold the rice?” the kitchener asked. “Hold out your hands.”

He complied, opening his palms to form a bowl. How could God do this to him? Even Jesus had had his final repast in the refectory with his disciples around a table. This cross was getting too heavy to bear. For the first time, he felt angry toward God.

The scrawny cook was relentless. With a quick thrust he emptied a spoonful of hot rice into François’s hands. The heat scorched his palms. He nearly gasped, but he would not succumb to the pain. His shoulders drooped, blood drained from his face, his eyes closed, and he moved to the next cauldron. There he received a thick, syrupy layer of soup. The agony went past the threshold of pain and sent him into a new state that bordered on bliss. He opened his eyes and looked at the others. LGc was still lapping at his shirt and ignoring everyone else. Henri was looking on with horror.

“It’s all right,” François muttered, mostly to himself. The pain was so intense that it reaffirmed the inevitable. “Soon I won’t have much use for my hands anymore.”

He bent his head and began eating his last supper.

The path from the prison to the execution site connected King Due Tong’s palace to that of Vice-king Truong Loan and stretched for about a mile. At the intersection in front of the king’s fortress, a traveler could turn east to exit the city toward the Perfume River, or west to the market, the mandarins’ quarters, and the vice-king’s castle. Following the imperial guards, the prisoners were forced to turn west. They had heard a rumor among the soldiers that they were going to die in the shadow of Vice-king Loan’s palace.

The sky shone with a fresh brilliance, so vast that everything on Earth appeared minuscule in comparison. There was not a cloud, and the sun hung at its midday peak, a cruel patch of orange in the serene ocean of blue.

The road was narrow, and all the lower-ranking soldiers were on foot, arranged according to their station. First in line were two common criers, carrying funnel-shaped instruments made from buffalo horns. When the men blew into them, they made deep groaning sounds, vaguely resembling the trumpeting of elephants. Another pair of menservants swaggered a few steps behind, a bronze gong slung from a bamboo pole between their shoulders. Occasionally, as if to mark the time, they struck it with a wooden mallet. The people of Hue watched the solemn parade while hurling insults at the captives.

The soldiers of higher rank were mounted on horses, surrounding the son of Mandarin TuyBn, who had transported the Kim Lai prisoners here. He was dragging François and the other convicts at the end of a rope tied to his saddle. The priest’s hands were trussed together in front of him. The yoke that had cuffed his bare feet had been removed so that he was able to walk. Each time he fell behind, the rope around his neck gave a painful tug.

Around noon, they came to a stream. The rushing hum of its current could be heard from many feet away. When they descended toward it, the ground became muddy and slippery, making it difficult for François to keep up with the strutting horses.

A group of peasants sat on a brown bed of grass on the bank. They were drinking from the brook as they ate. The smell of braised catfish and scallions was pungent in the muggy atmosphere. As the prisoners walked by, the female farmers remained sitting with their heads bowed, holding their portions of food. A man rose to his feet and stared at the passing procession, specks of rice clinging to his wispy beard.

Above the branches of a banyan tree, a flock of crows flew by; their black bodies pierced the azure sky like arrowheads. The rope cut into François’s neck, pulling him along.

When they had splashed through the brook, the party was joined by people going in the same direction, toward the market. To prevent the crowd from getting too close to the prisoners, the guards banged their metal gong and blew their buffalo horns. The martial sounds warned the spectators away.

In the confusion, François was pushed to and fro by the desperate convicts. He grasped Henri’s tunic so they could stay together. While the sun pounded on him from above, he staggered through an entrance and into a boxlike square surrounded by dwellings, homes of the low third- and fourth-class-ranking mandarins. There, above the yelling of voices around him, a bell tolled. Looking at the ground, François saw his shadow, trembling.

Located on a plot of land behind the mandarins’ quarters, the execution ground was teeming with townspeople. Above the heads of the multitude, the back of Vice-king Loan’s palace was visible on a twenty-foot stone foundation.

François glanced toward the building, mesmerized by its many towers and pagodalike roofs. Dragons, carved from blocks of granite and functioning as railings, ran the length of the two stairways, which were separated by a circular terrace. At the side windows, white triangular fanions with black rims were hung from the awnings to herald the deaths of the prisoners. With the wind gusting from the east, the flags billowed in waves like the swells of the river.

He was thrust into the middle of the square, surrounded by jeering spectators.
They all came to watch me die,
he thought, and was struck with utter humiliation. With nowhere to hide, he wiggled his fingers inside the tight knot, trying to get comfortable. The pain from the morning’s scalding food had dulled to an ache, and it no longer bothered him. As the rest of the captives reached the center of the square, he saw a row of three-foot wooden poles, which had been anchored in the soil a short distant from each other. The crowd grew denser. He knew from the wild faces of the onlookers that they were excited at the spectacle, and he was the main event.