China by Edward Rutherfurd (historical books to read TXT) 📕

an arm or leg—from men who had been blown to bits. Then there were the living, men with gaping wounds, several with entrails half out, some screaming, others already sinking into silence. Most of them seemed to be half naked. And in the middle of them all, the lieutenant with a pistol and the large mustachioed sergeant with a cutlass. They moved among the twisted figures on the ground calmly and methodically. Some of the wounded they judged might live; those whose case looked hopeless and whose agony was too great to bear, they killed quickly. It was only common decency that made them do it. He realized that. But he had never seen such horrors before. Soon, he knew, a sickening smell would be added to this terrible scene. He would not wait for that.

Once when he was a boy, he had met a man who had been at the great Battle of Waterloo, and he had asked him what it was like when the battle was over. But the man had only shaken his head. “Oh no,” he’d said, “I cannot speak of that.” Now he knew why.

The thought crossed his mind: Should he not go and give comfort to the dying? But what comfort could he give to those who did not even know the true and Christian God?

Instead he staggered out of the fort again and, once he was out, bent double and threw up.

It was the sergeant who came upon him. “Sorry you had to see it, sir. We don’t like to leave them like that, you know.”

“I understand.”

“They’re only heathens, aren’t they, sir? That’s a comfort, I suppose.”

—

Back on the Nemesis, Cecil Whiteparish stood, his head bowed. “It’s my fault,” he said to Elliot. “If I’d gone across with the marines at the start…”

“I wouldn’t have let you,” Elliot said firmly. “Besides, when they did get the message, they still ignored it.”

“God forgive me,” said poor Whiteparish.

—

An hour later, as the Nemesis continued northward through the marshes, Whiteparish, still deep in his own thoughts, was surprised to find himself addressed by the pilot, who had been watching him attentively.

“You are a holy man,” Nio said.

“I suppose so,” Whiteparish replied without conviction.

“I know the British worship a god, but that is all. What is he like, your god?”

For a few moments Whiteparish said nothing. He didn’t really want to talk. He didn’t feel very worthy. But it was his duty to answer the question. After all, as a missionary, that was what he was there to do. So he told the Chinese smuggler the rudiments of the Christian faith, which made him feel a little better. And when Nio seemed to take an interest and asked him more, he gave him further details. And perhaps grateful to make up for his sense of failure, he found himself telling Nio everything he knew about his loving Lord.

And when he was finally done, Nio looked thoughtful for a while. “This Jesus, did he have brothers and sisters?”

“Some think he had, others say not.”

“Was Jesus the Son of Heaven? Like the emperor?”

“His father was the King of Heaven. Better by far.”

“I hope so,” Nio said. He thought for a moment. “Would he have killed all those people in the fort?”

“No,” said Whiteparish firmly. “He would not.”

Several minutes passed before Nio spoke again. “You are a good man,” he said.

“I wish I were.”

“I think you are,” said Nio.

Cecil Whiteparish did not answer, but he wondered: Had his words about his faith been in the least adequate? Had some seeds fallen on good ground? Might they one day bear fruit?

He could not tell.

◦

At first, it seemed to Nio, he was contented enough. If something in his heart troubled him, he ignored it.

He was a free agent. His feelings about the Manchu hadn’t changed. He didn’t want to go back to the daily uncertainty of the pirate’s life. But the British seemed to trust him. They were still prepared to pay him very well. And there was plenty to do.

By the last week of March, the opium trade was in full swing again. The British had returned to their waterfront factory at Canton, though the great walled city overlooking them remained in imperial Chinese hands.

But neither the British nor the emperor intended to leave things as they were—which meant that the British needed spies.

Nio was perfect. Not only did he hear everything in the streets, but he had soon bribed two different servants in the governor’s yamen, his administrative office, to give him information. Together with all the news that merchants like Tully Odstock heard through their Chinese counterparts in the Hong, Elliot was well informed.

Each week, Nio went to the missionary hospital beside the factories—supposedly to seek help with a pain in his elbow that Chinese medicine had failed to cure—and made a detailed report to Cecil Whiteparish, who then conveyed the information to Elliot.

After reporting, Nio would usually stay to talk with the missionary—the good man, as Nio thought of him—and Cecil would tell him wonderful stories of Christ’s sayings and his miracles. Nio was especially impressed that the Christian Son of God had walked on water. And despite the fact that in the eyes of the law he was just a traitor reporting to his foreign paymaster, Nio drew spiritual nourishment and solace from these talks.

“There’s going to be more trouble,” Nio informed Whiteparish the first day he reported. “The emperor’s furious about the loss of Hong Kong. As for the compensation money, he just won’t pay. He wants the British trapped in the Gulf of Canton and annihilated.”

“How does he think he’ll do it?”

“Extra troops. A lot of them, from several provinces. They’re on their way already. And to command them, no less a person than General Yang.”

“Who is he?”

“A hero of the old wars against the steppe barbarians. And the province will be governed by one of the emperor’s royal cousins.” A signal that the place was now the court’s top priority.

But when