Sandalwood Death (38 page)

The winds were getting stronger; the river was beset by gray waves. He was reminded of his return trip on the
Pusan Maru
and thought back to Kang Youwei’s letter of introduction to gain him an audience with Yuan Shikai . . .

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3

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The town of Small Station in autumn; golden tassels on rice paddies as far as the eye could see gave off an intoxicating fragrance. Before his audience with Excellency Yuan in Shanxi, he had already quietly surveyed the area around Small Station for two days, secretly taking note of everything with the eye of a trained observer. He noted, for instance, that the soldiers of the New Army who took the parade ground every day carried themselves with military bearing, were armed with modern weapons, marched with precision, and made a fine impression, everything that the corrupt, inept old army was not. To know what a general is like, one need only look at his troops, and he held Excellency Yuan in the highest regard before he’d even met him.

Yuan’s official quarters, which were only a couple of arrow shots from camp, were protected by four swarthy guards the size of small pagodas who stood at the arched gateway. They wore leather boots, leggings, and leather cartridge belts, and carried German breech-loading rifles whose barrels were the blue color of swallows’ wings. He handed Kang Youwei’s introduction letter to the gatekeeper, who took it inside.

It was mealtime for Excellency Yuan, who was waited on by two beautiful attendants.

“I humbly offer my respects to Your Excellency!” He did not kneel and did not bow with his hands folded in front; instead, he stood straight and snapped off a Japanese-style salute.

He saw Yuan’s face undergo a subtle change, from a look of displeasure to a cold, sweeping examination with his eyes, and finally to an expression of admiration. With the briefest of nods, Excellency Yuan said, “A chair.”

He knew immediately that he had made a good first impression and that his plan had worked perfectly.

One of the attendants struggled to bring over a chair that was obviously too heavy for her. With the sound of her girlish panting in his ears and the smell of orchids emanating from her neck in his nostrils, he held his rigid stance and said, “I dare not sit in Your Excellency’s presence.”

“Stand, then,” Yuan said.

He studied His Excellency’s square face: big eyes, bushy eyebrows, wide mouth, and large ears, the very definition of eminence. Yuan, who had not shed the sounds of his rural home—thick and mellow, like aged spirits—went back to his meal, seemingly having forgotten his visitor, who stood there, rigid, unmoving as a poplar. His Excellency was in his nightgown and slippers; his queue hung loose. Breakfast that morning consisted of braised pig’s feet, a roast duck, a bowl of stewed lamb, a plate of braised mandarin fish, hardboiled eggs, and a basket of fluffy white steamed buns. Yuan enjoyed a healthy appetite and a love of food. He ate with rapt attention, as if he were alone. One of the attendants was responsible for peeling the eggs, the other for deboning the fish. He ate four eggs, gnawed on the feet of two pigs, finished off all the crispy skin of the duck, ate a dozen slices of lamb and half a fish, plus two steamed buns, washing it all down with three cups of wine. His meal finished, he rinsed his mouth with tea and wiped his hands on a napkin. Then he leaned back in his chair, belched, and shut his eyes while picking his teeth, as if he were alone in the room.

Knowing that all great men have their peculiarities, including the unique ways in which they observe and appraise talent, Qian Xiongfei assumed that the rude demonstration was how this one chose to evaluate his visitor. By then he had been standing at attention for more than an hour, but his legs remained steady, his eyes and ears clear and unaffected by the wait. By maintaining his military bearing, he had demonstrated that he was a model of military deportment and was exceptionally fit.

Excellency Yuan sat with his eyes closed, with one attractive attendant massaging his legs, the other rubbing his back. As loud snores rose from his throat, the attendants stole a glance at Qian Xiongfei and rewarded him with friendly smiles. Finally the snores stopped and His Excellency opened his eyes, fixing Qian with a penetrating stare that revealed no sign of having just awakened from a nap.

“Kang Youwei says you have acquired considerable learning and that your military skills are second to none,” he said abruptly. “Is that true?”

“Excellency Kang’s praise embarrasses and unnerves me.”

“I do not care if you have acquired real learning or worthless pedantry. I want to know what you studied in Japan.”

“The infantry drill manual, marksmanship, field logistics, tactics, armaments, fortifications, topography . . .”

“Can you shoot?” Yuan Shikai cut him off as he sat up in his chair.

“I am an expert in all infantry weapons, especially small arms, and with both hands. I may not be able to hit a tree at a hundred paces, but at fifty I never miss my target.”

“Anyone who boasts to me is in for a rude awakening,” Yuan Shikai said in a chilling voice. “I will not tolerate a man who overstates his abilities!”

“I will be happy to give Your Excellency a demonstration.”

“Excellent!” Yuan said with a hearty clap of his hands. “We have an adage in my hometown: ‘You can tell a mule from a horse by taking it out for a ride.’ Enter!” A young guard ran in to do Yuan’s bidding. “Prepare pistols, ammunition, and some targets.”

A rattan chair and a tea table were set up under a parasol on the firing range. Yuan removed a pair of pistols with gold-inlaid handles from an exquisite satin-covered box.

“These were given to me by a German friend,” Yuan said. “They have never been fired.”

“Please take the first shot, Your Excellency.”

The guard loaded his pistols and handed them to Yuan, who said with a smile:

“I’ve heard people say that for a true soldier, his weapon is his woman, and he will not permit another man to touch it. Do you believe that?”

“As Your Excellency says, many soldiers treat their weapons as if they were their women.” But then, with no apprehension, he added, “But I am of the opinion that anyone who treats his weapon as his woman scorns and considers his weapon to be a slave. I believe that a true soldier ought to treat his weapon as his mother.”

“Treating one’s weapon as his woman is absurd enough; treating it as one’s mother is preposterous,” Yuan said in a voice dripping with mockery. “You say that a soldier who treats his weapon as his woman scorns his weapon. Don’t you think that treating it as your mother is scornful of her? You can change weapons any time you want. How about your mother? A weapon is used to kill. How about your mother? Or better put, can your mother aid you in killing someone?” Under this withering interrogation, cracks formed in the foundation of his composure.

“Once you young officers receive a bit of Japanese or Western education, you develop an exaggerated sense of your abilities or worth, and when you open your mouths, all that comes out is wild talk and nonsense.” Yuan nonchalantly fired a round into the ground in front of them; the smell of gunpowder suffused the air around them. Then he raised the other pistol and fired into the air, sending a bullet whistling into the clouds. He lowered the gold-handled pistol and said, with a cold edge to his voice, “The truth is, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”

He stood, head bowed, and responded, “I gratefully accept Your Excellency’s instruction and will alter my viewpoint. As you say, sir, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”

“There is no need for you to climb high using my pole. While I do not agree with your comparison of a weapon to a mother, there is something to be said for comparing it to a woman. Here is a woman, a gift from me.” Yuan Shikai tossed him one of the pistols, which he grabbed as if catching a live parrot. Yuan Shikai tossed him the second pistol. “Another woman for you. That makes two sisters.” This one, too, he grabbed as if catching another parrot. And now, with the gold-handled pistols in his hands, it seemed as if all his veins and arteries had expanded. It had pained him to see Yuan Shikai fire those two shots so offhandedly; to him that was like schoolgirls being manhandled by a coarse, boorish man. But there was nothing he could do about that. He gripped the pistols, feeling them tremble in his hands and hearing them moan softly. Even stronger was the feeling that they had immediately given themselves to him. Deep down, he had already abandoned his shocking metaphor of a weapon as one’s mother, so why not treat them as beautiful women? The end result of the debate over weapon metaphors was a realization that Yuan Shikai was not only a military genius, but a man of considerable leaning.

“Show me what you can do,” Yuan Shikai said.

After blowing on the mouths of both barrels, he tested their heft for a few seconds. They sparkled in the sunlight, as fine a pair of pistols as he had ever seen. He took a couple of steps forward and, seemingly without taking careful aim, fired a total of six shots from the two weapons in less than thirty seconds. The guard ran up to the target and brought it back for Yuan’s inspection. Six bullets had hit the bull’s-eye in the shape of a peach blossom. Applause broke out from the men around Yuan Shikai.

“Nice shooting!” His Excellency said approvingly, a genuine smile on his face for the first time during the audience. “Now, what would you like?”

“I’d like to own these,” he replied unflinchingly.

Taken by surprise, Yuan Shikai stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You can be their husband!”

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4

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As he recalled those moments, he reached down and stroked the handles of the two pistols on his belt. They had been chilled by gusts of cold wind. “Don’t be frightened, my friends,” he said encouragingly as he warmed them with his hand. Then he pleaded: “Help me, my friends. When I have done what I came to do, I will be shot dead, but the tale of the gold-handled pistols will live on for generations.” They were, he could feel, beginning to warm up. “Yes,” he said to his pistols, “we must be patient as we await the man’s return. A year from today will be the first anniversary.” The mounted contingent behind him was getting increasingly restless—they were freezing cold and hungry, horses and riders. With cool detachment, he surveyed the two ranks of senior officers. They presented an amazingly ugly sight, all seemingly on the verge of falling off their horses, which nervously nipped at one another. There was no calming the mounts behind him, with one agitated wave coming hard upon the other. Heaven is on my side, he was thinking. Weariness has claimed everyone here, dulling their senses. I could not ask for a better time to act.

At last he, and only he, heard the faint toot of a steamship upriver. Instinctively, as his nerves grew taut, he tightened his grip on the handles of his pistols, but only for a brief moment. “Excellency Yuan has returned!” he called out in feigned excitement to the troops behind him and the ranking officers lined up on either side. Bestirred by the shout, the officers blew their noses or dried their weepy eyes or cleared their throats, each man eager to greet Excellency Yuan in a manner befitting his station.

The undersized glossy black steamship appeared around the bend in the river, puffing black clouds from its smokestack, each accompanying breath louder than the one before, until they were thudding against people’s eardrums. The ship’s bow cleaved through the water, arcing whitecaps to each side, while a wake sent ripples from the stern all the way to the riverbank. “Mounted troops,” he commanded, “double file!” With trained precision, the soldiers spurred their mounts into two files, spaced at roughly ten paces, all facing the river. The soldiers sat perfectly straight in their saddles, rifles off their shoulders and held at present arms, muzzles pointing skyward.

The military band struck up a tune of welcome.

The ship slowed down and edged sideways up to the wharf.

With his hands on the grips, he felt the pistols quake, like trapped fledglings—no, like a pair of women. Don’t be afraid, my friends, you mustn’t be afraid.

When the ship nestled up to the pier, it released a long whistle as sailors at the bow and the stern tossed over mooring lines, which were secured to bollards. At that moment, the ship’s engine shut down, and a party of subordinates emerged from the cabin to form lines on both sides of the hatch, from which Excellency Yuan’s nicely rounded head peeked out.

Again the pistols began to quake in his hands.

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5

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A couple of weeks earlier, when news of the execution of the Six Gentlemen in Peking had reached the small camp, he was in his barracks room oiling the gold-handled pistols. His orderly rushed in and reported:

“Sir, Excellency Yuan is on his way to see you!”

He hastened to put his weapons away, but Yuan Shikai walked in before he could manage. He jumped to his feet, holding out his oily hands. His heart raced as he saw the four hulking guards walk in behind His Excellency, their hands resting on the grips of their side arms. The ferocious looks in their eyes were a sign that they would not hesitate to use them. Despite his status as Commander of the Mounted Guard Detachment, he had no authority over Yuan’s four personal bodyguards, who were all from the commander’s hometown. He snapped to attention.

“Your humble servant did not know Your Excellency was coming,” he reported. “I beg forgiveness for my unpardonable slight!”

Yuan Shikai glanced at the weapons parts scattered on the table and said in a jocular tone:

“What are you’re doing, Detachment Commander Qian?”

“Your humble servant is cleaning his weapons.”

“I think not,” Yuan Shikai said with a barely concealed snicker. “You should have said that you are bathing your women.”

Reminded of his comment regarding weapons and women, he smiled awkwardly.

“What can you tell me about your association with Tan Sitong?”