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

the water, but now she turned to him. “Does it haunt you? All that you’ve seen. The men you have killed.”

“I am a soldier.”

She nodded slowly. He could not speak of it. She understood.

They buried the silver he had brought. Then they went to where his horse was tethered, and he said goodbye and rode away through the trees. And Mei-Ling gazed after him, feeling as helpless as a mother parted from her child.

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By the time this reaches you, Cousin Cecil, Lord Elgin will already be close. I had the opportunity to converse with him for some time just hours ago, and hasten to share what I learned while it is still fresh in my mind.

He’s doing his duty by going back, but hopes he won’t be in China long. His object, he confirmed to me, is quite simply to ratify the treaty he already made, by whatever means are necessary. Whether that proves easy or difficult remains to be seen. He will be accompanied by the French envoy, Baron Gros. The two will support each other.

But it was when we touched upon the larger issues that I found him most interesting. Would we be content, I asked him, to let the crumbling old Manchu dynasty collapse? What about the Taiping, nominally Christian as they may be? Would he want the foreign powers to take over, as we recently did in Canton? He was careful not to be specific, but he did make a general point, which I share with you.

We need a Chinese government, he said, that is strong enough to make treaties and keep order. But no stronger than that. Perhaps a government that can rule only if we help them. That may be ideal. But on no account do we want a China that is powerful enough to inconvenience us. Remember what Napoleon said: China is a sleeping giant. When she awakes, the world will tremble.

I wonder what you think.

March 1860

Guanji was nearer thirty than twenty, and it was the first time that anyone hadn’t been impressed with him. Unfortunately, the person in question held the key to his future career.

There was no doubt about it: The Mongolian brigade general who had arrived to command the Zhapu garrison didn’t think much of him or his attainments. He told him so.

When he saw Guanji ride his horse, he remarked, “A boy of seven from the steppe would outlast you.” When he saw him shoot his bow and arrow, he merely said, “Pretty.” As for the fact that Guanji had assiduously studied and achieved his juren status in the imperial exams, the Mongolian’s eyes narrowed to a slit, thin as a knife to cut a throat, while from his mouth came a snort of contempt.

“He’s an oaf, a vulgarian,” Uncle remarked. “You know his nickname, don’t you? Genghis. Because he seems to think he’s Genghis Khan. All the same,” he cautioned Guanji, “he’s your commander, he belongs to the Mongol Plain White Banner, which gives him prestige, and he has influence, so you need a good report from him.”

“What can I do?” Guanji had asked.

“Keep your head down and do your duty. Don’t try to ingratiate yourself. He’ll despise you for it. But be absolutely thorough.”

The Mongolian was thickset and strongly built, with a wide, intelligent face. He always smelled of snuff, which he took from a small cylindrical snuffbox with an ivory spoon. He never wasted words, but his orders were always clear, and for three months Guanji carried them out quickly, efficiently, and to the letter.

At the end of that time, Genghis had rewarded him with one remark. “You know the trouble with you? You’ve never been face-to-face with death. To see another man in front of you, looking straight into your eyes, and know that only one of you is going to live. That’s the moment of truth.”

Guanji carried the thought with him and wondered what he could do about it.

—

He might have grown up as the pet of the old warriors in the garrison and been made to understand that the development of his Manchu identity was his only chance of success in life, but it had been the news that his cousin and big sister Ilha had been killed with all her family at Nanjing, back in 1853, that had finally decided the course of his life.

That had been the shock. That had been the rage. That had been the sense of loss that could not be assuaged. That had been the memory that came to him late in the night, when his shoulders hunched in hatred and he stared ahead into the dark and conjured up dreams of vengeance in time to come.

A grim determination had gathered, set, and hardened within him, like a lodestone. He’d focused himself entirely. Everything he did was in pursuit of twin goals: to reach high office under the Manchu emperor; and to destroy the Taiping rebels.

The intimations that something spiritual might be lacking in his life, which had come to him from time to time during his schooldays, were not entirely snuffed out. In the course of his studies for the imperial exams, aided by his uncle and his scholar friends, he had been able to drink a little at the great fountain of Chinese culture. Indeed, after he took the exams, the examiners told him privately that had he studied for a few more years, he might well have earned this degree that as a Manchu bannerman he was entitled to, and which it was now their pleasure to bestow.

By the time he reached his mid-twenties, therefore, as a rising young Manchu officer in the Bordered Yellow Banner, he was taken very seriously in his native garrison of Zhapu.

“In a while,” his uncle said, “it may be time to find you a wife. I’d like to see you receive a promotion first, though.”

Guanji agreed. All he needed, he thought, as the emperor’s army slowly