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

the foreign powers had, once again, demanded reparations, she’d watched with pleasure as, over quite a short period of time, starting with the Americans, one by one, every participant had returned the money to China, sometimes in charitable form, sometimes as investment, but returned the money all the same.

Of course, her father had gone away long before then.

He’d departed on a ship that was going to pass by Macao. That had given her the chance to tease him a little, just as he was leaving. “You’ll have time to go onshore and look at some old haunts in Macao,” she said. “Romantic memories, I daresay.”

“Oh. With your mother, you mean?”

“No. There was the lady before her. Half Oriental, wasn’t she?”

“How the devil do you know about that?”

“Grandmother told me. She found out. Mother knew, too. Didn’t Mother ever tease you about it?”

“No. Never mentioned it, actually.”

“Well, good for you, anyway. Safe journey. Happy memories.”

—

The ship plowed its way towards Macao. Most of the passengers were on deck, for it was a sunny day and the view across to the island, with the gleaming facade of St. Paul’s high on its hill, was splendid indeed. But John Trader wasn’t on deck.

He’d been getting sick before he got on the boat, and he’d known it. But it didn’t matter. Everybody was safe. His report was done. It was the right time to leave. Right for Emily and Henry, too. They’d all enjoyed one another’s company, but it was better to leave before people were glad to see you go.

The ship’s doctor came into his cabin. He was a good, sensible man, in his forties. An Irishman, O’Grady by name. He looked at Trader seriously. “I’ve got to put you off, you know.”

“Why?”

“You’ve got pneumonia.”

“I know that.”

“Fresh air and sun on Macao may save you.”

“I want to stay here.”

“I can’t answer for you.”

“No. But you can bury me.”

“At sea? That’s what you want?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not supposed to.”

“Write a note to cover yourself. I’ll sign it. Not that anyone will ever ask to see it.”

“Probably not.”

“How long shall we be here at Macao?”

“Two days.”

“I’ll sit on deck in the sun for one of them, if it’s fine.”

And it was fine, and he did, and then the ship left on the evening of the second day, after dark, and he made his way with difficulty back to his cabin and collapsed on his bed.

As he lay there, he thought: If I hadn’t come down with pneumonia, I’d be buried in Scotland. But he didn’t want that. Leave Drumlomond to the Lomonds. He wasn’t really one of them. He’d got the Scottish estate he’d always wanted, acted the part of landowner well enough all these years, but it was time to move on.

Where would he have chosen to be buried, then, if on land? He couldn’t think of anywhere. Not with the life he’d had. There was no turning back now. I am a man at sea, he thought. Let the sea have me.

He began to sink late that night, and continued to sink, watched by Dr. O’Grady, while the night grew blacker. Black as opium.

It was me. I did it. She foresaw everything. And she was in control up to her last breath. But she needed me. And I did it.

I caught my first glimpse of her secret plan—for I am sure that is what it was—about two years after she’d returned to Beijing following the Boxer Rebellion. The day before, she’d been out to the Eastern Tombs to inspect her mausoleum, and she’d returned in a very good temper. The mausoleum was magnificent. When the time came, she’d be buried in splendor. And people would look upon her tomb with awe for centuries to come.

That day, however, she was to receive a group of Western ladies, Americans mostly, who were coming to pay her a courtesy visit.

Such visits had become rather a feature of her life at this time. I believe she talked to these women for several reasons. She’d clearly decided that, since she couldn’t get rid of the Western barbarians, it would be best to make friends with them, and she could still be very charming when she wanted. The Western women loved these meetings, and they seemed to amuse Cixi; though whether she was really amused, it was hard to tell.

But I’m sure that she was also curious, for if there was anything they could tell her about their customs that might be useful to China, she wanted to find it out.

The meeting that day was typical. The Western women wanted to talk about foot-binding, and Cixi explained: “As a Manchu, I am no more in favor of the custom than you are. Indeed, I’m going to take steps to end it.” They liked hearing this very much. Several of the women, at the urging of their husbands, I expect, told her about the wonders of the great railroads that the Western powers could build for her in China if she granted them concessions. The dowager empress always said to me in private that she hated trains, but she smiled and said that, no doubt, there would be many more railroads in China in the future. Actually, I rode in a train with her once, and she seemed rather to enjoy it.

But that day, what she really wanted to talk about was their form of government. “In your country,” she asked the American women, “the people elect assemblies to represent them, and also a president who rules—but only for a few years. Is that not so?”

“It is,” one of them replied.

“All the men elect?”

“Most. Not all.”

“And the women?”

“Not yet.”

“Is it not disruptive that you have to go through such a process so frequently?”

“Perhaps. But it means that if we do not like a government, we can soon change it.”

“Your Majesty might think our system is better,” a young English lady suggested. “We have a monarch who rules with the advice