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

to their own flock. But no one had any food to give. Henry and Emily selected four of their converts for a visit to the infirmary, and then they all trooped back together. As they left the Fu, a sniper sent a bullet over their heads, just to remind them who was boss.

It was after Emily had gone with the converts to the infirmary that Henry turned to Trader and asked if they might have a private word.

They found a protected corner of the garden where there was a bench by some trees, and they sat down. Henry was silent for a moment or two. Then he asked, “Can I tell you something in confidence?”

“I should think so.”

“I don’t want you to tell Emily.”

“All right,” said Trader. “As long as it isn’t something I feel I have to tell her.”

“It isn’t.” Again Henry hesitated. “It helps to talk sometimes,” he said.

“Talk away.”

“It’s funny, you know, my father always warned me it was an occupational hazard for missionaries. But it never happened to me. Not in all these years.” He paused. “I suppose,” he went on, “I thought it would be an agonizing thing. You know, a dark night of the soul.”

“What would be?”

“Oh. Sorry. To lose my faith.”

“Ah. Well, I’ve heard of that, of course. What brought it on?”

“It may have been brewing for some time. I’m not sure. But it’s been this last month. The converts in the Fu.”

“It’s enough to shake anybody up. I was pretty shaken myself, to tell you the truth.”

“Yes, but don’t you see, it’s my fault. I look at these poor people, starving, their children dying, and I think to myself, It’s my fault you’re here. If I hadn’t converted you, the Boxers wouldn’t be trying to kill you.”

“Christians have suffered persecution down the ages.”

“Yes, but these wretched Chinese didn’t take up the cross to be martyred. They just believed all the good things I told them. Now the bullets are flying, they’re probably going to die, and it’s my fault.”

“You’ve brought them to Christ. Saved their souls, perhaps.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to feel.”

“And what do you feel?”

“Nothing. I feel nothing. Just an awful blankness.”

“As I understand it, the point is to have faith.”

“That’s right. And it’s gone, flown away, vanished over the horizon.”

“I’m no theologian, but isn’t this the dilemma they call the problem of evil? That’s to say, if God is loving and all-powerful, then why would He create a world that is so full of cruelty and pain? Why do bad people triumph while good people are destroyed?”

“That’s right. And religion has many ways of explaining the conundrum. God is testing us. God has a purpose we do not know. There are other arguments. But suddenly I found I didn’t believe any of them. They all seemed a lot of nonsense.”

“Christianity preaches kindness to others. That can’t be bad.”

“It’s good. The Sermon on the Mount is wonderful. I could have come to China to be a doctor, for instance, or to help the poor, and done no harm at all.”

“You know,” said Trader thoughtfully, “years ago I was at a dinner party in London, and there was a Jesuit priest there. And when we were sitting with the port, we got onto the subject of saints, and canonizing new ones. And someone asked him whether there had ever been a case of a candidate for beatification who was discovered to have lost their faith. And he told us something that surprised us all. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘that would strengthen their case. Loss of faith can be a part, a very testing part, of the spiritual journey.’ And I remember thinking afterwards that although I’m not a Catholic myself, one can’t deny that the Catholic Church knows a lot about the secrets of the human heart.”

“You’re trying to comfort me, and it’s very good of you,” Henry replied. “I’m sorry that I’ve brought your daughter into all this.”

“Nonsense. She chose it. Stop blaming yourself for everything.” Trader smiled at him kindly. “I can tell you one thing, though, if it’s any help: something I’ve been thinking in the last couple of days. I believe there’s some kind of influence at work that’s protecting us. Now whether it’s the hand of God or something more mundane, I can’t begin to guess. But something’s keeping us alive.”

“How do you mean?” asked Henry.

“The Chinese could have taken the legations the other night. But they didn’t. Something’s holding them back.”

“You don’t think the Dragon Empress wants to destroy us?”

“My guess is that she does. But maybe there are two factions at court. Something like that. Her orders are being obeyed, but not completely followed through on. Personally, although I can’t prove it, I like to think that the hand of God is operating through those people. And you might find comfort in that thought. But whatever is holding them back, it’s only got to do so long enough for the relief force to reach us. So even if you’ve lost your faith at this moment, there’s a good reason to carry on regardless and hang on.”

“I shall,” Henry promised. “You’re the only one I could share this with, you know.”

“I know,” said Trader.

—

It was early that evening that he received supporting evidence for his theory about the Chinese attacks. He’d just gone over to the bell tower to scan the notices when he encountered Morrison.

“I saw our friend Backhouse today,” the Times man said. “I’d gone up to the barrier by the old library that burned down. Thought I’d just check that the Chinese weren’t trying to sneak in that way again. No sign of any Chinese, but I could hear someone rummaging about in there. It turned out to be Backhouse. He’s been hiding out somewhere in the city—God knows how he does it—and he’d come to see if there were any books he could salvage.”

“Did he have news of what’s going on out there?”

“He did. The Catholics are holding