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

you left. Her death would not have been painful.” He glanced at his wife. “It would have been before the troops came.” He turned back to Guanji. “The British officer has given me permission to remove both your parents’ bodies for proper burial. Everything will be done as it should be.”

And so it was. And little Guanji had this comfort: His mother had not suffered, and his father was a hero.

—

Not every boy is taught to be a hero. But Guanji was. He didn’t mind. It meant they gave him a pony.

Since he’d lost both his parents, his uncle adopted him as an extra son, and certainly no father could have been kinder or taken more trouble to bring him up in the best Manchu tradition. Even before he was six years old, Guanji could answer his uncle’s catechism perfectly.

“What is our clan?”

To a Han Chinese, it was his family that mattered, his parents and grandparents who must be honored; and when asked who he was, he gave the family name first, then his personal name. But for a Manchu, the wider clan, the tribe, was everything. The true Manchu did not have a family name. He went proudly by only a single personal name within his clan.

“We are the Suwan Guwalgiya,” Guanji would answer. “We can trace our ancestry for seven hundred years.”

“Where is the spirit pole of our clan?”

“In Beijing.”

“Who is the founder of our branch of the clan?”

“Fiongdon, the archer and commander, companion of Khan Nurgaci of the Golden Clan, who brought the Jurchen tribes together and founded our Manchu royal house.”

“How did Khan Nurgaci show his love for Fiongdon?”

“He offered him his own granddaughter as a bride.”

“What happened when Fiongdon died?”

“The sun changed its course, thunder and lightning filled the sky, and Khan Nurgaci himself was chief mourner at his funeral.”

“How many sons had Fiongdon?”

“Twelve, the seventh of whom was Tulai, the great cavalry commander.”

“What did they do?”

“They drove the Ming dynasty from the throne of China.”

“How many generations separate you from Fiongdon?”

“Nine.”

“What ranks did Fiongdon hold?”

“Before his death, Lord of the Bordered Yellow Banner and one of the Five Councillors. After his death, he was made Duke of Unswerving Righteousness. Twice again, as generations passed, his rank was raised higher. A hundred and fifty years after his death, he received the highest rank of all.”

“What is that?”

“Hereditary Duke, First Class.”

“Sometimes, Guanji,” his uncle explained, “a man may rise high during his life, but after his death, his reputation may fall. He may even be disgraced. But Fiongdon’s name and rank have grown over time. That is the proof of his worth.” He smiled. “One day, little Guanji, you, too, could bring such honor to our clan.”

—

The pony was a sturdy, shaggy little Manchurian roan, with a big head and a white patch on his face. His name was Wind over Grasses, but little Guanji just called him Wind and loved him very much. One of the old Manchu warriors in the garrison began to teach him to ride in a small field near the house.

After six months the old warrior gave him a toy bow and taught him how to pull it and shoot arrows while he was riding, and before long Guanji could race past the target and hit it every time. The old warrior praised him, and sometimes his uncle came to watch, and Guanji was very proud and happy. After a year they gave him another bow, not quite so small, and soon he was just as accurate with that, too.

Sometimes, after his riding and archery lessons, the old man would take Guanji to the teahouse where he met his Manchu friends, and they’d tell the little boy Manchurian folktales and sing the zidi songs, accompanied with a hand drum, about the glorious deeds of the Manchu past. They’d encourage Guanji to sing along with them, and soon he knew a dozen of the rhythmic songs by heart, and the men were delighted and called him Little Warrior; for there was no other small boy in the Zhapu garrison who knew so much.

“You know what they say,” the old man would declare with a nod, “a boy who is strong in body will be strong in mind.”

When he was seven, his uncle put him in the garrison’s junior school. “You will learn to read and write Chinese characters,” his uncle told him, “but you will learn to speak and write Manchu as well. Even many bannermen can’t speak our language anymore, but the court in Beijing still uses Manchu in all official documents. If you rise high, therefore, this may be useful to you, and it will certainly please the emperor.”

His uncle was the only person Guanji knew who had ever been to the capital. “Will you take me to Beijing?” Guanji asked.

“Perhaps,” his uncle said. “One day.”

—

Meanwhile, Zhapu itself seemed like a little heaven. The family lived quite well. Like all bannermen, his uncle received a modest stipend in silver from the emperor, and a grain allowance, and some benefits like schooling for his sons. But he supplemented these with the profits of a printing business he owned in the city of Hangzhou.

“Bannermen like us aren’t supposed to become merchants and craftsmen,” he explained to Guanji. “It’s demeaning. But preparing and printing fine books the way I do is considered fit for a Manchu gentleman, and so I got permission.” He’d smiled. “It’s just as well, or we couldn’t live as well as we do.”

As for his uncle’s children—his brothers and sisters now—they’d embraced him so completely that in a year or two he’d almost forgotten they had been his cousins first.

His favorite was Ilha, the elder girl. He admired her with all his heart. She was everything a Manchu girl should be.

Manchu women did not totter on bound feet, like the fashionable Chinese ladies. Their feet were as nature intended. In their platform shoes, wearing the simple, loose qipao dress with the long slits down the sides,