The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure (77 page)

‘Aye,' said Airton, weakly. ‘That would be generous.'

‘Come on, you.' Nellie turned her attention to the children. ‘Jenny, will you stop gawping at those pictures. You're far too young to understand them. Come on, into your beds now. And you, young man. We'll all need our sleep for the days ahead of us.'

When she was satisfied that the children were comfortably tucked up, she sat down beside her husband, who was sitting on the bed, gazing listlessly at the floor. ‘Edward,' she murmured, ‘is this place what I think it is?'

Airton groaned.

‘What would your brother James say, or my aged parents for that matter, if they knew we were spending a night together in a brothel? Can you imagine their long, solemn faces?' She smiled. And then she began to laugh, a deep-throated, hearty laugh, which rocked the bed on which they were sitting.

The laughter disturbed Airton from his introspection. ‘Have you gone mad, woman?' he rounded on her. ‘Do you realise where we are? Oh, what have I done? What have I done? Did you see their faces, Nellie, when we left them? And all to bring you to this Babylonian sink of iniquity. What have I done?'

Nellie kissed him. ‘You've saved my life and that of our children, that's what you've done. You've been a good husband and father. And you were very brave. You've nothing to reproach yourself for, Edward, nothing. And I love you the more.'

But Airton dropped his head into his hands, the reproachful faces of Sister Caterina, Herr Fischer and Frederick Bowers accusing him of his desertion. He felt foul, corrupted, damned, to the extremities of his soul.

‘You can sit there feeling sorry for yourself if you like, my dear,' said Nellie, after a while, ‘but I'm tired and want to go to bed.'

One by one she blew out the candles until the room was perfectly dark. Airton was left alone in the blackness contemplating the faces of all the people he had betrayed.

*   *   *

As soon as the cackling Mother Liu had closed the door on them, Henry and Helen Frances had fallen into each other's arms, scrabbling with their hands to tear away each other's clothes, devouring each other with their lips, teeth, tongues, grunting in their haste to press naked skin against naked skin, flesh against flesh.

‘Oh, my darling, your bruises. How I've … how I've…'

‘Oh, my love, my love. The thought of you…'

Each incoherent sentence was stopped by a hungry kiss.

Panting they wrenched away from each other. Henry hopped on one foot as he pulled off his boots. Helen Frances had already ripped the shirt from his back, and he her blouse. She fell back on the bed as she unclasped her skirt, wriggling out of it and throwing it aside. Henry had already kicked away his trousers. She lifted her arms, moaning with impatience as he pulled her chemise over her head. She lay back on the pillow, raising her lower body so that he could enter her. Blood tingling, eyes burning, hands trembling, she reached out for him.

But Henry stood frozen, staring at her.

Perplexed, she raised herself on her elbows.

‘Darling? What is it?'

‘Your stomach,' he whispered.

She sank back on the pillows.

‘My God, I didn't know,' he said.

She groaned. A tear formed in her eye. ‘I couldn't bring myself to tell you,' she whispered. ‘I knew … I knew in the Black Hills. That's why I said I wanted to leave Shishan. But surely it's different now? It doesn't matter now?' Her eyes pleaded. ‘It's different, isn't it?' She was weeping.

‘Yes, it's different,' said Henry, his eyes widening. ‘Oh, God,' he said. ‘Oh, God, what have I done? What have I done?'

Her eyes implored him. ‘Love me.' It was hardly a whisper.

‘Oh, my darling,' he cried, taking her into his arms, covering her face with kisses.

‘Oh, God, if I'd known … I'd known.' Softly his palm cupped the light protuberance of her belly, where the life was growing inside. ‘Oh, darling, forgive me. Forgive me,' he murmured. Her mouth met his. Gently he settled his body over hers. She gasped, and squeezed his back when he entered her.

Downstairs in one of the dining halls of the Palace of Heavenly Pleasure, Iron Man Wang's men were firing their rifles at the ceiling in a drunken debauch. The noise, like faraway firecrackers, hardly reached them. Their bodies moved to a rhythm of their own creation. The old four-poster squeaked, and for a while it seemed that in this private world of touch, heat and smell into which they had retreated, nothing could harm them. Not this night. Not while their arms were there to enfold each other; nor afterwards, when her head lay on his shoulder, and he breathed the scent of her hair, tangled in his own. For this one night they were protected, if only by each other from all the devils that stalked outside.

Sixteen

The Imperial troops are brutal. They do not understand the deep magic. Master Zhang says be patient. Victory will come.

 

Major Lin's troops arrived at the mission shortly after ten. This time he did not bring melons.

Herr Fischer opened the door. He was in his nightshirt and was holding a teapot.

‘It's time,' said Lin shortly.

Herr Fischer blinked when he saw the grim-faced soldiers standing menacingly behind their officer, and the two covered travelling carts waiting by the gate. He understood. ‘
Ja
. I will inform the others,' he said.

Troopers with fixed bayonets followed him into the hall.

It was all quite orderly. The Millwards were ready first. The children followed Laetitia in file like a school of crocodile towards the gate. Septimus strode solemnly behind, a prayer book clutched to his chest. His other hand kept a firm grasp on Burton Fielding's elbow, steering the cowed minister forward. After a half-hour in a cupboard and the rest of the night in enforced prayer with Septimus, the superintendent of the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions in China had become a much humbler man, if slightly dazed by the experience. Caterina came out next, wearing her Ursuline robe and wimple and holding a rosary. Frederick Bowers had put on full railwayman's uniform. He and a frockcoated Fischer helped Tom down the steps.

They were thankful for the protection of the covered carts as they ran the gauntlet through the Boxer lines. There were the expected jeers and shouts, and some missiles were thrown at them. Sister Caterina was sitting closest to the tailboard of her cart, and could see the grimacing, angry, hate-filled faces, jostling for a view of their condemned enemies. She noticed one man because, unlike the others, he was smiling. With a start she recognised Zhang Erhao, who had once shared the daily chores of the hospital with her as Dr Airton's major-domo. Their eyes met and he spat, a yellow gobbet of phlegm, which stuck to her robe. The cart jolted on.

It was a relief to reach the open countryside.

It was a glorious day. Great clouds rolled in a deep blue sky. The leaves on the elms were rustling in a slight breeze. Magpies and choughs flew among the branches. In another circumstance, on just such a day, they might have been going on an outing, in just such a cart, with Jenny and George. Sister Caterina suddenly thought of Elena, and began to weep.

‘Come on, old girl.' She felt a large hand on her shoulder and saw Tom's red, smiling face beside her. ‘Here, give me your hand.'

Faintly, from the cart in front of them, where the Millwards were, they could hear the sound of a hymn. They could make out some of the words. Septimus's strong voice carried over the clatter of the wheels, the shrill voices of his children accompanying him.

‘We shall reach the summer land,

Some sweet day, by and by;

We shall press the golden strand,

Some sweet day, by and by…'

‘Look, I don't know that one,' said Tom, ‘but we can do better than the Yanks, can't we? Come on, Bowers. let's give them an English hymn. Come on, Caterina, you've got a lovely voice. Drown me out because I sound like a foghorn … All right, I'll start.' And taking a deep breath he began to sing:

‘There is a green hill far away

Without a city wall …

Come on, chaps. Join in.'

Bowers chuckled. ‘Did you say foghorn, Mr Cabot? Sounds more like a croaking frog to me. Let's show you how we sing in the Dales. With a pint or two inside us, perhaps. It's a beautiful morning and there'll be time enough for religion before the long day's done. Now, this is an old song my mother taught me. You foreigners may find the words a little strange at first, but just follow along,' and clearing his voice he began to sing ‘On Ilkley Moor Bar t' At'.

Tom joined in enthusiastically:

‘Where hast thou been since I saw thee, I saw thee

On Ilkley Moor bar t'at…'

Herr Fischer found he could not help laughing. ‘You English. Oh, you English,' he said. ‘You never behave appropriately,' but he began to follow:

‘I've been a courting Mary Jane,

I've been a courting Mary Jane…'

His harsh, guttural bass hardly added to the harmony, but he had a smile on his face as he sang.

‘That's good, Mr Fischer. That's good. We'll make an Englishman of you yet,' said Bowers. ‘Now, Sister, will you join us for the third verse?'

‘Then thou will catch thy death of cold, death of cold

On Ilkley Moor bar t'at…'

Weakly, at first, she too joined in, but her voice strengthened and soon they were all bellowing out the nonsensical refrains, and laughing between the verses. And after ‘Ilkley Moor,' Bowers led them through ‘Do Ye Ken John Peel?' Then Tom sang the ‘Eton Boating Song,' and Herr Fischer remembered a drinking song from his days at Heidelberg, and Sister Caterina sang ‘Funiculi Funicula.' And then, by common volition, they began all over again with a resounding repetition of ‘Ilkley Moor.'

Major Lin rode behind them on his grey mare, a stern expression on his face. He wondered whether these prisoners really knew the fate so imminently in store for them. That they could roister in such a way! Had they no fear? A Chinese would have comported himself to his death with dignity. Yes, even scum like Iron Man Wang and his bandits, or the scabbiest peasant. How he loathed these foreigners. Even now they appeared to be mocking him. He hated them almost as much as he hated the Boxers. Undisciplined rabble. He longed for an ordered society, a restoration of the old virtues, a respect for the majesty and terror of the law. Well, he would impose order with the Mandarin's guns. But these foreigners—why did they not show fear?

The little convoy moved on through the lanes, and the singing rose from the carts of the condemned to the blue dome of sky above; from one cart came ‘Praise My Soul, the King of Heaven,' from the other ‘Ilkley Moor Bar t' At.'

*   *   *

When they were in sight of the city walls, Major Lin stopped the convoy. They would walk the last quarter-mile to the city square.

They were stripped of their fine clothes. Chinese criminals walked bare-chested to their execution. Even the women were stripped to their skirts, although they were allowed to hold up the fronts of their dresses in some preservation of modesty. It did not seem the time to worry about such things, and neither Caterina nor Laetitia showed any objection. It was somehow beneath their dignity to do so. There were too many of them for them all to be given
cangues,
so only four, Septimus Millward, Herr Fischer, Burton Fielding and Frederick Bowers were loaded with the heavy wooden collars. Tom was spared this because of his disability. A stretcher had been prepared for him, but he indicated angrily that he would walk on crutches, and Major Lin let him have his way. Nor did Lin insist that they be shackled. It would merely have burdened the march. The irons were thrown back into one of the carts.

Yamen
officials were waiting for them. Chamberlain Jin was in his palanquin. He had the responsibility of leading them to the square. Bannermen stood with their pennants flapping. Others held long sticks, their task if necessary to beat their way through the crowds. A drummer had a big tom-tom tied to his chest, and two musicians were adjusting their long horns; their role was to walk near the front of the procession to give warning to passersby to stand aside.

There was the usual Chinese chaos as everyone found their places in the line of march. Major Lin sat on his horse irritated by the delays. Finally Chamberlain Jin waved an elegant hand out of his palanquin, and Major Lin barked the order to begin.

The heavy drum began to thump. The horns began to blare.

At a desperately slow pace—that of the children and Tom on his crutches—the procession began to move.

The gate tower loomed above them. Soldiers and ruffians were leaning over the crenellations to catch a glimpse of them. Then they were swallowed by the dark cavern of its inside, the spikes of the portcullis hanging threateningly over their heads as they passed within. And out the other side, where a blaze of sunlight hit their eyes, blinding them for a moment before they noticed the thick crowds lining the road. Even the balconies of the houses were filled with people. So many of Shishan's citizens had come out to watch the foreigners die. But this was not the usual Chinese crowd. It was silent. It was as if they could not believe what they were seeing. Burton Fielding stumbled under the weight of his
cangue,
his head bowed to the road in front of him. The others somehow carried themselves upright. Septimus Millward strode proudly in front, eyes looking neither left nor right, although occasionally he cast a fond glance at Hiram, who was walking by his side. The women had forgotten their modesty and were holding hands with the smaller children, one on either side. Tom strained on his crutches at the rear, Frederick Bowers held a steadying hand on his shoulder. The black-bearded railwayman gazed at the crowd on either side with equanimity.