The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (73 page)

Oh, James, what terrible times we are living through, and how dark all of a sudden the future seems. The saddest thing for me is that the one man in whom I put my trust seems to have betrayed us utterly. The Mandarin may have protected us up to now, but it seems that it is only to keep us for a worse fate to come.

That I should have been so intimate with him, counting him among my friends, and yet all along to be deceived about his real nature! I condoned evil and called it pragmatism. I mistook venality for compromise, and opportunism for wisdom. I realise now that I was winking at murder—worse than murder, for it was committed under the veil of the law.

Hiram's story alone convinces me how utterly mistaken I have been. For whatever reason (money? blackmail?), it is now certain that the Mandarin connived with criminals, and executed innocent people in order that the terrible crimes being done to Hiram would not be found out. Who, except mad Millward, would continue to believe in the boy's continued existence after a
yamen
trial had condemned his murderers? Yet again Septimus has been proved right when wiser heads have been befuddled.

There is a lesson here, James, a lesson. Septimus reposed his trust in the Lord, and he believed what his heart, or his Voices told him, when everyone else, including myself, was blinded by what they thought was their reason. Whatever is to come—and, frankly, with Tientsin and Peking under siege, and even the Imperial Court against us, what hope remains for us?—we would be better to take a leaf out of Millward's book and trust to that Higher Power, giving ourselves humbly into His Hands, counting not the little tribulations of this world, but seeking to prepare our souls for that Homecoming which the Grace of our Lord Jesus Christ has promised us.

Again, my admiration goes out to that young boy, for perhaps the bravest act in a catalogue of bravery was his decision ultimately to come and join us, even though he knew that we are doomed by imperial decree, and that if he came here he, too, would share in our fate. He may talk of Manners, but fundamentally I believe he wishes to be with his family, and to be reunited in their love before the end comes. I know the comfort that I myself feel in having Nellie and the children close to me. If there was any hope of saving them I would lay down my life to preserve them—but having no hope of that now, just knowing that we will live and die together is mercy enough. In fact it is more than mercy. It is a sort of joy. For what can prevail against love?

It is late. I must sleep. We must be strong to face tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, and however many remain for us.

Have sympathy for us. The drums outside have begun to beat again.

And more days had passed, and she had decided to get up. She saw Tom in the pantry, and she smiled at him, but he only muttered and moved away. Nellie and the doctor were kind to her, and Herr Fischer held both her hands and told her how pleased he was that she had recovered from her illness. But everyone in the house had been distracted—she gathered that they had had news that their execution was now certain. She spent some time knitting with Jenny: the little girl seemed to take some comfort from her company, and when she was with Jenny she did not have to think. She was sad, however, that such a sweet little girl would have to die soon.

For herself she was relieved. There were no more choices now. It was as if her wretched life had been given a reprieve. She longed for the nothingness, the extinction.

 

Thursday 4 July 1900

 

Well, now I know what it must feel like to live in a condemned man's cell and, this may surprise you, it is not as intolerable as one might expect. Strangely, the thought of imminent dissolution hardly bears down on the spirit at all. For Christians such as we, what is death anyway but a release from care and the crossing over of a bourn to a happier world? What is tiresome is the waiting. We would be much happier if we knew with more certainty when it is to be.

It may surprise you, but during the last few days we have returned to some degree of cheerfulness in our little household. We hardly pay attention any more to the howling and screaming and the drums outside. I had thought that Hiram's ominous news would have unmanned us all, but it is rather the contrary. Now we know that the worst is likely to happen we have ceased worrying about it.

Each of us seems to be adapting in our own ways. The Millward family act as if they are on holiday, so delighted are they with Hiram's return. Nellie told me the other day that she actually heard Septimus telling a joke. It was not a particularly funny joke so I won't repeat it, but his behaviour of late has been what I can only describe as waggish, if you can imagine a stern Old Testament prophet being such a thing. He is even taking part in some of the children's games. George has set up his clockwork railway set in the playroom and Septimus is, would you believe it?, the solemn stationmaster, with a scarf around his neck and Bowers's cap on his head. From time to time he blows a whistle. It is very droll.

Bowers and Fischer have become the firmest of friends. They have established a routine of Bible-reading in the morning and chess in the afternoon. To our delight Fischer has taken to playing his fiddle again in the evenings, and he and Nellie now regularly perform a little concert for us. It is difficult to hear against the noise of the Boxers outside, but we strain to listen.

Sister Caterina has taken the contemplative route, praying for many hours of the day in front of the icon of the Virgin Mary in her room. She tells me that she feels very close to poor Sister Elena for whom we must presume the worst, and is happy because she knows that the two of them will soon be reunited.

Tom and Helen Frances? I feel very sad for them. They have not been able to resolve their differences. I suppose that it does not matter so much now, but I would have liked it if they had come together again. As you know, I am a hopeless sentimentalist. Nevertheless, there appears to be no rancour between them. Helen Frances is up and about and, if not fully restored to her old self, at least her health is restored, as is much of her former beauty, though she looks older and somewhat sadder. She and Jenny have become inseparable, sewing together and chatting about I know not what. Poor Jenny, I see that she would have grown up to be a lovely lass if she had had the chance. Tom has taken one of the children's jigsaw puzzles and seems happy enough just being by himself. He, too, looks older and sadder but occasionally, when he is concentrating, he unconsciously whistles a merry tune; I may be an incompetent physician, but I am satisfied that if a man can whistle, there is little really to worry about him, body or soul!

And Nellie and I? We spend much of our time sitting together, occasionally talking about Scotland and our many happy memories, but usually we are content to be silent together, like the auld man and wife in the story, nodding by the fire. One day Nellie noticed that we were holding each other by the hand, and she blushed, remarking that this was a fine time to be beginning a second honeymoon!

The one Malvolio in our happy circle is, I am sad to say, Dr Fielding, who cannot reconcile himself to our fate. Thankfully he no longer rails and criticises as he did, but it is sad to watch him pacing restlessly up and down the room, lifting the shutters to watch the Boxers outside. We tend to ignore him, as we do the Boxers. It is better that way.

Dear James, do not be sad for us. We are quite content.

I had intended to write a long formal letter to you as the executor of my will, asking you to look after this, and take care of that—but material things that once had such overwhelming importance, especially to us money-minded Scots, hardly seem to matter much now. I know you will do what is right with my little estate, and that you will see that my dear Mary and Edmund are well looked after. Truly I could leave them in no better hands. Dear James, you have always been friend as much as brother to me, and I know that you will be a faithful father to my children.

I hope this is not my last letter to you, but it may be. It is only a matter of time. In any case, there is little more to say. We are leaving this world of trouble and cruelty, confident that we will travel together to whatever Paradise those who have always trusted to our Saviour are heirs to. We are terrible sinners, with the most miserable failings, but somehow I know that the Lord will treat us mercifully. And I have no doubt, my dear James, that sooner or later you and I will also be reunited there, and we will walk the heather once more. (Can there be Heaven without heather?)

Goodbye for now, James. Scotland for ever!

 

Sunday, 7 July 1900

 

Dear James,

It is as we expected. Lin came today. He brought with him a memorial from the Mandarin. He has finally answered my letter. It is not the reply I hoped for when I wrote to him. It is a formal proclamation acknowledging my ‘appeal for mercy,' but then it goes on to tell us that the foreigners ‘have been justly condemned for their iniquities' and that we must await the ‘sentence of the Emperor'. So much for a trial. It seems to have already taken place in our absence.

Perhaps it is better this way. I am glad that Nellie and the children will be spared the indignity of kneeling in a
yamen
court. I asked Lin when our execution is to take place, but he was his usual cold self. We will ‘be informed,' he told us. I imagine that it will not be long now.

Perhaps there is some humanity in the man. He brought with him a cartload of luscious watermelons, a gift for the condemned. You can imagine how welcome a treat this was for people who have been parched on small quantities of brackish water for the last few weeks.

We carried them into the kitchen, and made a great pile on the table. The children could hardly wait to fall on them. With rather doubtful humour Bowers brought down the chopper slicing the delicious fruit. ‘Chop-chop! Chop-chop!' he said.

Oh, James, but you would have laughed to see …

Fifteen

Every day we attack the walls without success.

The ocean devils' magic is hard to overcome.

 

‘You would have laughed to see…' Airton smiled as he sat at his desk, wondering how to describe the look on Bowers's so solemn face when he had realised the inappropriateness of his chopping remark, and his hangdog sheepishness afterwards. He wanted to describe it in a humorous way. After all, this might be the last letter he would ever write to his brother, and he wanted to communicate to James the good cheer that had blessed this household despite, or perhaps because of, their appalling predicament. Never before in his life, he realised, had he felt at such peace with himself. Never before had he felt such pleasure in the simplest things, or appreciated how truly wonderful it was to be alive. It was almost intoxicating. Even the ugly metal paperweight on his desk seemed to have a beauty of form. He felt suffused with love, for his family, for his fellow prisoners, even for the inanimate objects in the house. The motes of dust swirling in the rays of sunlight coming through the shutters made him think of flying angels. Of course he dreaded what was to come. He hated the fact that his children would suffer pain. He knew that all his fortitude would be required—but, strangely, even though his rational self reminded him of all these things and he knew that the time allotted to them was only a matter of days, the joy and intensity of living for the moment were enough to put all evil thoughts aside. It was like the holidays of his youth, romping on the beach in a golden for-ever, with no thought of the hospital ward or the study to which he would inevitably have to return. He wondered whether they had been granted a taste of the Heaven that was to come. A perpetual present bathed in the glow of love.

Absentmindedly he reached into his pocket for his tobacco pouch, but instead of the familiar soft leather he felt his fingers touching something hard. Surprised, he pulled out a small canvas package. Using his paper knife, he cut the string tying it. Inside was a folded piece of paper and a ring, a gold signet ring. With a shock he recognised the emblem, a griffin half rampant, and a Latin motto
auxilium ab alto
. The last time he had seen this was on Henry Manners's finger.

The folded piece of paper lay on his blotting pad. He had a reluctance to touch it. He felt resentment, revulsion. Until this—thing had arrived, everything had been so clear-cut. The path ahead was laid out. The slow fugue of martyrdom, in all its quiet beauty, was playing to its fall. All they had to do was accept what Fate had ordained for them. Therein lay peace. But now there had come a jarring note of discord. He knew instinctively that whatever this message contained it would bring complication to their existence. The mere idea—and he could hardly doubt it now—that Manners was still alive alarmed him. The uncharitable thought came to him: Oh, why could he not have remained safely dead? All that Manners had ever brought to them in the past was trouble. The very fact that it had been Major Lin who had delivered the package denoted intrigue. The package could have come from no other quarter. Lin was their only link with the outside world. Yes, he remembered now how Lin had uncharacteristically stumbled over his spurs and clutched the doctor's lapels to prevent himself falling. He must have slipped it into his pocket then. Airton resented the familiar emotions that were rising unbidden into his breast and that he thought he had conquered for good: those of fear—and, worse, of hope.

With trembling fingers he unfolded the paper and read the bold, incisive script. It was short, but very much to the point.

All are condemned. I can save you, your family and Helen Frances but nobody else. Say nothing to anybody but be prepared to move quickly. The window of your room after midnight. Lin will be the messenger.

Dr Airton dropped the paper. Then he laid his head on the desk and groaned.

*   *   *

‘My dear Ma Na Si,' said the Mandarin, ‘for a man being tortured to the point of death, your cries are extremely feeble. Please give some consideration for my reputation. We have an audience skulking somewhere outside, and I would hate that Iron Man Wang should have so poor an opinion of my abilities.'