The Three Leaps of Wang Lun (57 page)

At the clandestine visit that she made at nightfall to his yamen in the company of her maids, without beating about the bush he explained his revolutionary plans, showed his sketch maps, the plan of action. The girl, attending with great seriousness, asked practical questions. He revealed to her the difficulty of entering the Vermilion City through the western gates, yet they could only enter through these gates, for entry by the eastern or southern gates would necessitate surrounding the entire Forbidden City, thereby splitting up their not too numerous forces. Coming to the two officers of the watch he carefully described their idiosyncracies, the impossibility of initiating them into the plot; noted in passing what vain fellows they were, womanisers of the worst sort. The girl, considering, soon smiled; the smile spread to him, and so both broke out into cheerful laughter, she roaring, he softly under constraint.

But then there was a long pause while she sat on her chair with streaming eyes, did not answer and asked only that she be allowed to sit there. The officer paced from wall to table, from table to wall, cursed himself for his clumsiness, resolutely swept up the papers, explained to her softly that he didn’t want to upset her, none of this had been said. The girl stood up gravely, rejected such a misprision of her understandable fatigue; she felt immensely honoured to receive his confidence, of which she hoped to prove worthy; asked calmly now about details, about the Truly Powerless, Wang Lun,
said she wanted to hatch a plan tomorrow, and left the uneasy officer, who felt he couldn’t cope, alone.

And the next day he came across her sedan chair again. She was resplendent in a rich blue gown embroidered with pheasants. Ribbons of green silk hung from her shoulders and her waist; black hair was piled like a helmet on her clever head. Her eyes looked trustingly at him; she wanted to prove to him that she was capable of more than writing cynical letters. As it turned out, she succeeded in just a few days in attracting the delighted interest of both officers. To one she was a dancing girl, to the other an abandoned wife. The young lady held both besotted men in the palm of her hand.

Once Ngo had been informed by Yellow Bell of the state of the preparations, plans had been exchanged for the joint occupation of Peking, they ceased their promenades between the spruces by the gleaming mausoleum. Couriers summoned Ngo to return. The armies of the Truly Powerless and the White Waterlily mobilized.

Scorching heat in the northern provinces as the revenge-swollen rebel masses rolled towards Peking. The drought spread horror. On the way they encountered processions of peasants heading out from their villages into open country to pray for rain. In front of the little peasant bands a man ran with a green helmet thrust down over his head, a green wooden shield on his back. Now and then everyone halted in grey powdery fields. The costumed man, representing the rain god, supported himself as if ill on two bendy staffs like the antennae of a snail. And now the furious villagers fell on him, sprinkled him with water from cans hanging from yokes, beat on his shield with flails and pitchforks. Several of these peasant bands joined the insurrection direct from their processions, holding the Emperor to blame for the severe drought.

Channels snaked like empty intestines, dry putrid grooves through the landscape. Leaves curled on the trees, hung brown
and sere over crumbling fields, steam rose from brooks like soup in which dying fish threshed, mouths and gills jammed.

The hotplate of the fields thudded beneath soldiers’ feet. Brightly clad swarms hastened wilting across dead plains. Before them swept black accusing banners. The caloric element overtook them: all around houses went up in flames. Soldiers lay down exhausted south of the little river Liang-shui near Peking. They filled the wonderful monastery of Chieht’ai-szu across the Hun-ho, the Yellow Lord’s favourite resort, bawled over the red walls towards Peking, sought shade among the oaks and privets of the old hunting park.

Chao Hui advanced by forced marches. Only a fraction of his forces made headway; no provisions to be had, roads barricaded with boulders, gangs of rebels at their rear and on their flanks every day.

On the day when Wang Lun’s victorious troops stormed the walls of Peking’s southern city, Ch’ien-lung sat in conversation with Chia-ch’ing in the Ch’ien-ch’ing Kung, the Emperor’s private palace in the Forbidden City, and silently listened to the uncanny music of roars and screams from the Chinese quarter.

Ch’ien-lung, grown thin, rather bent, in a yellow gown on cushions at the open window: “When the Tashi-lama advised me to tolerate the sects, exercise mercy, I didn’t know if I would be doing right in the eyes of my ancestors. When the ministers and censors were assembled and the princes of the first rank stood at my side, we composed the edict that was to dismember the sects.”

Chia-ch’ing, looking at the floor, murmured, “It’s all right. We have good walls. Chao Hui will be here soon.”

“I hear screams from across the walls. There must be righteousness, Chia-ch’ing. My life is of no importance. I must be righteous. Might it be better to surrender?”

“If I might beseech my father not to torment himself all the
time with oppressive thoughts.”

“I am quite calm, Chia-ch’ing. But we shall talk it over just once; you’ll learn something from it.”

“My father always sacrificed to Heaven at the proper times, emulated his great ancestors, burned incense to them on the prescribed days; the populace has flourished.”

“The populace has not flourished. My people are no longer peaceable, for they are not happy. See the flames there, to the north of the Temple of Agriculture: so horribly do they sacrifice to me. Love my people—?”

“What you have done for the people is so tremendous, so unprecedented, that I couldn’t be so bold as to compare with yours any reign that will follow.”

“Words, Chia-ch’ing, words. The populace thinks otherwise. I’ve lost face. My time is up.”

“The murderer Wang Lun wants to restore the Ming. The Ming!”

“How ridiculous. You shall reign after me. I ask only whether it’s sufficient to the moment for me to—to retire?”

“Father, I beseech you. How can I reign after you, I who am without merit, without spirit, without literary skill, incapable of drawing a bow, mounting a horse—after you, and you say you’ve not done enough.”

“What a noise the Chinese make.”

“It sounds like rejoicing. That’s cannonfire. There—rockets.”

“To give us light, Chia-ch’ing. A strange people. No brain.”

“Let me close the window, father, draw the curtains.”

“Leave it, it doesn’t bother me. It’s instructive. Let us experience this moment together. We don’t often have the chance to look so closely into men’s faces. The Mings won’t return, those—those fools. Emperors can’t be warmed up again. How good, ten
parts good, that the Pure Dynasty came in with the Manchus. You people must be ruled with iron. There’s no freedom for this race. Only love, that marches through the streets with a curved sabre at its belt.”

Ch’ien-lung stood at the window, menacing with his fist. Chia-ch’ing rose. After a pause, Chia-ch’ing: “A-kuei’s holding the Tartar City. Our walls and ramparts are well manned.”

“I know you mean they are not well manned. They’re enough for those there.”

“Perhaps it would be better, father, to deploy more of our Manchurian Banner troops, bowmen from Kirin into the Vermillion City. There are rumours that some of the other Banner regiments are not reliable.”

“All our Banners are good. Where have you heard such rumours?”

“I couldn’t obtain any hard information. My servant gave me a suspicious wax tablet with secret markings, picked up in a barracks. I made enquiries, and found that there was already talk of such things.”

Ch’ien-lung glared at him. “Talk. Suspicious wax tablet. Bannermen’s barracks. My eunuchs should keep their eyes open. Old wives’ tales, nothing more.”

“Nevertheless, it’s unsettling—”

“So I see. It’s unsettling you.”

“The princesses and other princes have heard these rumours. If we become afraid—”

“That’s your affair, Chia-ch’ing. Princesses don’t concern themselves with the defence of the Forbidden City. The dynasty rests on my shoulders.”

Slammed the window to. “Draw the curtains, Chia-ch’ing. Heat’s pouring in. The noise is tiresome. Tell me about your peacocks.”

Chia-ch’ing looked enquiringly at him.

“How many do you have now? Has your keeper managed to obtain breeding birds for you from the King of Turfan? I have six rare ones.”

Chia-ch’ing remained silent. The Emperor, now sitting upright against the cushions, declaimed equably, “Aren’t you interested in peafowl? Not anymore? That’s not right. Animals and books are both good: they don’t change. They’ll soon stop shooting, outside. Great movements peter out quickest. It’s a fine movement, this Ming rebellion. Don’t fret about it, Chia-ch’ing.”

The old ruler walked somewhat stiff kneed up and down the room. At a table covered with scrolls and books he picked up a book, leafed through it; the lines on his forehead settled; his crumpled face assumed an expression of deep absorption.

Reading he sat down again at the window. “Yes, so it is. How good that there are books I’ve written myself. I can compare, seek, find myself. I should like to go to Mukden. How lovely it is there. I described it the way a young man enumerates the delights of his beloved: the hills, the forests, the innumerable fish in the rivers, the Taling-ho. Hunts. Did T’ai-tsung not say: ‘Let us go to war! That is the only recreation for the Manchus. Our hills bring forth a new kind of enemy. Hunting must be for us the image of war.’ ” He read on. Chia-ch’ing rose quietly, felt his way to the door. Ch’ien-lung called to him, smiled: “Stay with the old man. He might be able to calm you. Don’t go to the women, or you’ll lose your composure.” Chia-ch’ing cowered. The Emperor regarded him with a smile.

While Chia-ch’ing sat with the Emperor and in vain sought once more to persuade him to bring a strong force of Guards into the Forbidden City, was brushed coldly and mockingly aside by Ch’ien-lung, disorder reigned among the palaces. An unwonted jumble of eunuchs and soldiers heaved about by the walls. The eunuchs counted the soldiers, stopped their ears at every new cry
of triumph from the burning Chinese city, ran to the interior of the City to report to the nervous women and dignitaries who had taken shelter there. Many of the obese eunuchs sat side by side, hearts pounding, heavily armed with helmets, swords, shields. Several ancient dignitaries carried silken cords or fine gold leaf, to give themselves an easy death. Here and there a cheerful soldier wandered about with a live chicken under his arm, showed the cackling bird to the running eunuchs with a comforting exhortation not to worry; he’d sacrifice with comb’s blood from this three year old bird to fortify their souls on the journey to the grave. What would they pay him in advance? Towards evening, before darkness set in, Ch’ien-lung was carried along the walls of the Forbidden City. For an hour he inspected as squads were deployed and sentries posted. He moved in a terrible stillness. Chia-ch’ing had been summoned to the Emperor for the night. Almost weeping and beside himself, the prince besought him with the utmost urgency to order more troops into the city. Ch’ien-lung lost patience and remarked that one should not hide from fate when it came in search of the Pure Dynasty. Did the Prince doubt that the Ming dreamers would—must—crack their heads against a wall? And then he tormented Chia-ch’ing by counting off the troops, who were so few.

As expected, in the middle of the night the rebels unleashed their attack on the Tartar City and Vermilion City. No order was discernible in this assault; Simultaneously with it war whoops echoed outside the two northern gates, the Tesheng and Anting Gates, and outside the three southern gates: Shunchih Men, Hata Men, and the Ch’ien Men that led onto the great Imperial avenue. The rebel storm was of extraordinary ferocity. Breaking of gates, defeat and expulsion of the guards took but a short time. After the initial falling back of Manchu troops there followed stubborn and bitter resistance in streets, barracks. Overwhelming, engulfing, the
rebel swarms poured over heaps of the fallen through the wide open gates of the southern city. They mingled with traders and merchants from the Chinese quarter, who were quick to follow the victorious Ming banner.

The shortlegged awkward-shouldered Manchu troops fought the huge peasants from the northern plain, who craved revenge for the drought, climbed coolly through barrack windows with whetted blades, hissing flails, were shot dead from somewhere. Scattered groups of brothers and sisters spat out Death, gulped it down.

The dazzling white-red of the sea of fire in the east of the Tartar City injected a swathe of brightnesses and deep shadows into the scene. The new granary in the north burst into flame. The immense rice store to the south was impregnated by this shower of sparks and within minutes blossomed into a giant poppy tossing flaming in the wind. Under the festive lights threshing masses burrowed into each other. Grotesque squirming, contortions, armswinging, hopping of silhouettes, ghostly running across shadowed barrack squares and alleys. Whizzing, splitting, crackling in overheated air from every side, sprinkling over the conventional noises of the question and answer game between death and human life.

For more than a double hour they fought, then Manchus and rebels rolled into the stinking northern ditches outside the Forbidden City, which waited black as pitch and motionless behind its walls.

The dismissive obstinacy in which it lay was dispelled when cannonshot cracked from the upper North Gate and the harsh glare no longer illuminated the tops of the thuyas and cypresses, but after minutes of silence this glow crawled over the ground between torn trunks, wandered dense, intimate between the greenhouses in the northern flower garden. The rebels had broken
through the upper North Gate. They poured their twisted grimaces, the stink of ditches and alleys into the stern. city of emperors.

Here the reliable Guards in squares grew grim. Empty women’s pavilions trembled at the footfall of the enemy destroyers. The little eastern treasurehouse was broken open; bars of silver, chests, silks gushed down the steps, vases shattered their swelling bellies.