Peking: An Epic Novel of Twentieth-Century China

PROLOGUE

Manchester

1921

"Because our eyes are blue, most Chinese believe we can see into the ground to a depth of three feet."

The sunburned features of the tall, quiet-spoken Lancashire missionary relaxed in an amused smile.

They think we use that little trick to discover gold in China. But for some strange reason they’re also convinced that we blue-eyed folk can’t see through clear water.

The missionary’s smile broadened; his teeth gleamed white in a lean, handsome face that had been burnished to the color of bronze by many years of Asian sun and wind, and the expression lent a temporary radiance to the drab church hall in which an audience of several hundred devout Mancunians were listening intently to his every word.

"They call us ‘yang kuei tzu’ — ‘foreign devils’ — and they say we murder Chinese children in our missionary orphanages so that we can use their intestines to turn lead into silver! They say the high spires of the churches we’re building in China are annihilating their spirits of the air … that the mine shafts and railways being constructed by British engineers are destroying the benevolent influence of terrestrial dragons coiled deep beneath the earth."

Near the back of the hall Jakob Kellner shifted suddenly on one of the hard wooden benches where he sat between his parents. Still-innocent blue eyes, inherited from his Swiss-born father, narrowed in concentration as he dragged his fascinated gaze away from the heroic figure of the missionary to stare fiercely at the coarse-grained planks of the floor. With all the force his ten-year-old mind could muster, he willed his sense of sight to penetrate the scuffed wood and enter the earth beneath.

Who could tell, thought Jakob excitedly, perhaps terrestrial English dragons, unknown to anyone, lay coiled in the earth beneath industrial Manchester? Perhaps it was their benevolent influence that had attracted the forest of cotton-mill chimneys to that region of northern England in the first place. Perhaps the thick black smoke that belched daily from the mill chimneys came in reality from these fire-breathing beasts! It was the mills and the industrial prosperity they promised which years before had lured his father westward across Europe from the impoverished canton of Zurich to seek work in the city as a textile engineer. Perhaps, thought Jakob, those same magic dragons had prompted the meeting between his father and his gentle, artistic English mother while she was teaching the new techniques of embroidering by machinery in the mills.

His father’s big-boned hands, grimed permanently with oil in their creases, rested in his lap at the edge of Jakob’s vision. He was a taciturn, mild-mannered man who had started attending the nonconformist church in a cobbled back street of Moss Side merely to please his wife. But now, like all the other rapt listeners around him, his faith had become a vital source of refreshment that helped him endure the hardships of life in the mean, dingy streets that had grown up around the mills. Notorious for its constant rain and raw fogs, Manchester was excelling its reputation even on that midsummer Sunday of 1921. Steady, soot-laden rain was drenching the cobbles outside the hall and a leaden sky pressed against the dirty windows. If only those invisible underground dragons could influence the weather, thought Jakob. If only the sun would burn down on Manchester as it obviously did on China to weather the pale, gaunt faces around him and make them resemble that of the tall, energetic missionary who was undertaking a short speaking tour during his first home leave in ten years.

They call the new telegraph wires we have put up in the remote interior regions of China ‘iron snakes.’ When rainwater rusts on them and drips to the ground, they say it is the blood of the dying spirits of the air. If there is a famine or a drought they blame foreign missionaries and all our works, saying we have outraged those spirits.… So great efforts, you see, are still required to overcome this terrible ignorance and spread the word of God through the length and breadth of China!

Jakob raised his eyes to find the missionary slipping on a wide-sleeved, embroidered Chinese long-gown. Smiling again, he held up a black satin cap with an artificial pigtail attached to the back, then pulled it into place to cover his steel-gray hair. Clasping his hands together within the sleeves, he inclined his head and shoulders in a mock bow, transforming himself instantly into the likeness of a Chinese mandarin.

They say all Christians are cannibals — because we like to eat the body and drink the blood of our God! They sometimes draw pictures of our Lord on the cross as a crucified pig! All this stirs up hatred against missionaries, and it is no secret that many brave men and women have been martyred in China. So when you travel in the mountains it’s sometimes wise to wear Chinese clothes like these. Then the bandits hiding on the mountaintops, with luck, will mistake you for a Chinese. If not, you might be robbed or kidnapped — or worse.

The missionary’s face had become stern; now his voice deepened abruptly, taking on a commanding tone. But whenever a missionary dies, another must be ready to step forward and take his place. Volunteers are needed to dedicate their lives to that vast, unfortunate country. Otherwise China will never be saved!

Jakob stared fixedly at the exotically clad figure. As the missionary paused to survey his audience, the ten-year-old boy fancied that the steady blue gaze rested on him alone for a second or two before moving on. After removing the long-gown the missionary began speaking again, but this time Jakob neither heard the words nor saw his shabby surroundings. In his mind’s eye he was surveying a distant land of towering mountain ranges thronged with writhing dragons and surging hordes of Chinese bandits armed to the teeth. Through the chaos and confusion he himself was striding, proud, straight-backed, and bronzed like the missionary by the merciless Asian sun. Braving all dangers, he was seeing into the ground to a depth of six feet on every side, he was finding gold everywhere without effort and turning lead into silver at will. Bandits and dragons retreated on all sides in whichever direction he advanced, powerless to prevent him from saving China virtually single-handed.

Jakob emerged from his daydream only when his father shook him gently by the shoulder. He looked up to find his mother smiling at him. The audience had begun rising from their seats and a wooden collecting box was being passed around. At its approach Jakob plunged his hand into his trouser pocket to pull out two copper pennies. Holding them on his palm, he looked questioningly at his mother.

That’s your tram fare home, Jakob, she chided gently.

But can’t I give it for China? The boy shifted anxiously from foot to foot. You could give your fares too — and we could walk home, couldn’t we?

It’s pouring with rain, lad, said his father. And we’ve got nearly two miles to go.

But Papa, he pleaded, we should try to help save China, shouldn’t we?

His mother reached out and brushed the fringe of fair hair from his eyes. The expression in them was eager, endlessly hopeful. Jakob’s right, she said, opening her own purse and dropping three pennies into the collecting box. Our need is not as great as China’s.

On the way out of the mission hall they passed close to the animated group of people pressing around the missionary speaker. He was bending over a box, putting away the mandarin’s gown and other Chinese curios that he had brought for display. Looking up unexpectedly, he caught Jakob staring at him and their eyes met; immediately the face of the missionary broke into a broad smile and one eye closed slowly in a conspiratorial wink.

Jakob grinned shyly in return and rushed into the street, tugging a flat cap from his pocket. Taking the hands of both his parents, he hurried across the slippery cobblestones between them, oblivious to the heavy rain. Inspired anew by the intimacy of the missionary’s wink, in his mind he had already reentered the mysterious mountains and dragon lairs of China. During the long, drenching walk home he reveled in a giddy succession of blood-stirring adventures of the imagination, and by the time the family reached the door of their modest terraced house, without his realizing it, a fierce spark had been ignited inside Jakob. It would smolder on almost unnoticed for several years before being fanned into the bright blaze of a conscious ambition — and the pursuit of that ambition, fired in a drab, backstreet mission hall, would ultimately shape his fate and determine the course of his adult life.

* * * * * *

At that same hour seven thousand miles away in the real China, a faint breeze was nudging a canopied sampan across the sparkling waters of Nan Hu lake at Chiahshing, south-west of Shanghai. On board the fifty-foot craft lounged a dozen young Chinese men who were pretending that they were there to enjoy the tranquil beauty of the placid, lotus-fringed lake. In the shade of the cocoa-palm awning they made a show of idly sipping wine from porcelain beakers and dabbing chopsticks at dishes of spiced Nan Hu fish they had purchased from an itinerant lakeside food vendor. But whenever their boat drifted out of range of the other pleasure sampans plying the lake, sheafs of documents were quietly drawn out of scuffed satchels beneath their seats by each of the young men; their bodies straightened, their expressions became alert and their false indolence evaporated in a moment as they began again to argue and debate with one another in low passionate tones.

They were dressed in well-worn gowns or tunics of a variety of native cloths, that, along with their differing dialects, indicated that they had made the long journeys from widely separated cities — Shanghai, Peking Changhsha, Wuhan, Canton, Tsinan. Their faces, intelligent, educated, in some cases scholarly, betrayed the common intellectual heritage they shared. Most were obviously the sons of mandarins, landlords and other bourgeois families and all were in their twenties or early thirties: without exception their eyes bore the bright gleam common to young men who imagine they have a vital mission in life to fulfill.

One of the group, a tall gaunt Hunanese, seemed to set himself apart. His pale blue gown was crumpled and creased, his thick black hair unwashed and far longer than any of the others, and this gave him an unkempt, gipsy-like air. Dirt was visible beneath his fingernails, his face bore a dark smudge on one cheek and even when the discussion intensified, he continued to loll silently against the gunwale of the sampan, trailing one hand distractedly in the water.

Whenever he turned his head to look at one of the speakers, however, the focus of his gaze was unusually sharp and penetrating and from time to time, while still staring into the green waters of the lake, he shook his mane of hair dramatically as though to express his pent up disagreement with what was being proposed.

Comrade Mao Tse-tung! You’ve said almost nothing. The note of reproof in the voice of the round-faced Chinese presiding over the meeting from the head of the narrow plank table, was unmistakable as he addressed the reclining figure. If we are to succeed here today at long last in our efforts to found a united Communist Party for all China, every delegate attending should make his views clearly known. So kindly tell us, Comrade Mao — do we have your support for the majority proposal to base the Party statutes on those of the experienced Russian Bolshevik Party, or not?

The long-haired Hunanese continued peering silently into the lake for so long that the other delegates thought he was rudely declining to reply. Then he smote the surface of the water sharply with the palm of his hand and sat up, fixing his gaze intently on the man at the head of the table.

Comrade Chang Kuo-tao, I am already twenty-seven years old! I can not wait a hundred years more to overthrow the militarists and foreign imperialists who have enslaved China for so long! I want action today! Tomorrow! I want to see things happening very soon with my own eyes! He drew a long, slow breath, struggling openly to subdue the force of his long repressed feelings. My admiration for the revolution of the Russian Bolsheviks is boundless. But China isn’t Russia! They urge us to organise the workers in our cities to overthrow capitalism and set up a ‘dictatorship of the proletariat’ — but our country is so backward that we have comparatively few city workers at present. Are we forgetting that among every hundred Chinese there are eighty peasants? Don’t you see — from the very start, the burden of our revolution must be borne by all the people of China! Not just a few!

We are all impatient to hasten the revolution that will save our country, Comrade Mao, said the round-faced chairman quietly. But we must exercise caution at all times. Although they are small in number at present, city workers are likely to be more politically aware than our vastly more numerous peasants. And we shall gain the most benefit at present if we organise our new party on the already successful Bolshevik principles — and also affiliate ourselves with the Communist International. What’s more, if we report regularly to Moscow on our progress, we shall receive guidance and support from men who have made a successful revolution in their own country four years ago. But above all else, as I have already said, we must remain cautious."

The Comrade chairman is right, interjected one of the other delegates. Have your forgotten so soon that this founding congress itself almost ended in disaster in Shanghai because of our very lack of caution? If we had not been constantly vigilant since discovering that traitorous police informer in our midst, our secret meeting place in that warehouse in the French Concession would have been betrayed before we could make our escape. Our presence on this sampan in the middle of a quiet lake far from prying ears and eyes should remind us above all else that we must always be cautious — and not impatient.

The chairman nodded his grateful appreciation of the speaker’s support. May we take it then, that the delegate from Hunan now approves the proposal to follow the example of the Russian Bolsheviks and organise our party accordingly, starting in urban centres? he asked quietly.

For a moment the young untidy Hunanese hesitated. Then he relaxed and stretched his long body slowly along the length of the gunwale once more. I approve the proposal, he said shortly without looking up. Then he added quietly: For the time being, that is.

The chairman of the meeting briskly shuffled the papers in front of him and in a low voice began to read out the previously prepared written drafts of the founding statutes for the Chung Kuo Kung Cha’an Tang, the Communist Party of China. When he had finished, the drone of discussion resumed, but the unkempt delegate from Hunan did not attempt to join in. Instead he continued to lean over the side and drag his fingers idly in the water ; the brooding expression returned to his face and as the sampan drifted on toward the setting sun, he continued to gaze restlessly about himself as though seeking inspiration in the surface clusters of red and white lotus flowers, the pine trees that marked the lake’s shoreline, and the distant, misty shadows of China’s southern mountains.

PART ONE

The Marchers Gather

1931

In 1931 China was politically dislocated and seething with unrest. Western nations were continuing to exercise a humiliating form of colonial rule over many treaty port areas that they had seized in the mid-nineteenth century, and an unfinished revolution had deteriorated after two confused decades into a Communist-Nationalist civil war. The revolution of 1911 had been sparked above all else by the ever-increasing intrusion into China by foreign powers. This had proved a particularly traumatic experience for a proud nation possessed of four thousand years of recorded history and a deep conviction of the inherent superiority of its civilization. China’s very name, Chung Kuo — meaning middle kingdom or central country — reflected this ancient sense of authority, and its emperors had been accustomed since earliest times to receive annual tribute of silver and other gifts from neighboring Asian countries.

But neither the philosophies of China’s great sages, the cultural refinements of its mandarin scholars, nor its large armies could provide any defense against those Western nations who burst forth from Europe during the nineteenth century, newly strengthened by the industrial revolution, to colonize much of the rest of the world. China’s gold, jade, silk, and tea provided irresistible commercial bait — and its massive population of four hundred million, a quarter of mankind, constituted the biggest single potential market in the world. With their steel steamships, mass-manufactured weapons, railways, and telegraphs, the Europeans cowed backward nations on all continents, and by the end of the nineteenth century, exploitation of an enfeebled China had become a mad scramble among the colonial powers. Britain, which first forced China to open its ports to foreign trade after the Opium War of 1840, had set up a colony proper in Hong Kong. Shanghai, Canton, and Tientsin became the other major foreign-ruled coastal enclaves where Europeans enjoyed the security and protection of their own national laws and police forces: railway and mining concessions and other trading privileges were also extorted from China’s helpless imperial governments. In addition, the many treaties imposed on Peking forced the Chinese to grant foreign evangelists wide-ranging rights. The number of missionaries entering the country increased rapidly in the wake of the colonialist penetration, and churches, schools, orphanages, and hospitals were set up both in the treaty ports and in many parts of the interior. The numbers of Chinese converted to Christianity always remained small in comparison with the missionary effort and the size of the population — but this did nothing to lessen the fervor of the missionaries themselves. Even the antiforeign Boxer Rebellion of 1900, which resulted in the ritual massacre of many European missionaries and their wives and children along with thousands of Chinese Christian converts, did not drive out the foreign evangelists.

The overthrow of China’s last emperor a few years later, in 1911, succeeded in ending more than two thousand years of imperial rule. However, this republican revolution, led by Dr. Sun Yat-sen, was not able to restore China’s pride and independence. Instead it plunged the nation into a state of prolonged political turmoil. Outside the foreign-ruled treaty ports, power passed immediately to the remnants of the imperial army, whose commanders became feared regional warlords. Reactionary mandarins and feudal landowners as a result retained the same stranglehold on the people throughout China that they had held under the emperors. Sun Yat-sen’s Kuomintang, or Nationalist Party, which had been founded in 1893, welcomed Communists into its ranks as well as all other Nationalists, but it was unable to assert its authority because it lacked effective military forces. Close links were developed with Moscow, and in the early 1920s the Kuomintang began training its own armies. After the death of Sun Yat-sen in 1925, however, his successor, Chiang Kai-shek, broke with the Russian Bolsheviks, drove out the Communists, who had founded their own party in 1921, and turned the Kuomintang into a right-wing movement. In 1927 Chiang finalized the breach by staging a brutal massacre of thousands of Communist workers in Shanghai. The Kuomintang’s own armies then swept northward to Peking, subduing or winning over the regional warlords one by one, and a triumphant proclamation was issued announcing that China had been unified under Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek.

The authority of Chiang’s government based in Nanking was not accepted, however, by the Communists; the bulk of them had already retreated deep into the mountainous rural regions of central and southern China to set up their own administrative areas, which they called soviets. About 80 percent of China’s population were virtually landless peasants, and in their Soviets the Communists were satisfying an age-old grievance by executing landlords and distributing their fields to those who toiled in them. As a result, peasant volunteers had begun flocking to their banners, and large-scale civil war developed when Chiang Kai-shek moved his Nationalist armies against these soviets. But the Communists, although inferior in numbers and arms, resisted stubbornly by means of skillful guerrilla war strategies. As 1931 dawned, none of today’s perspectives was discernible amid the turmoil of the time. In particular, no hint of the strength and determination possessed by China’s Communists had been allowed to filter to the outside world through the Nationalist military blockades. Consequently China’s gigantic stew of complex causes and ambitions continued to lure many white Western adventurers into its midst. Fortune seekers of every kind thronged the relatively safe treaty ports, fascinated by the opportunities and excitements that a great and ancient country in ferment presented. The braver ones occasionally ventured beyond the international concession areas, and among those who did, none showed more courage than the men and women who traveled deep into the dangerous heartlands of China without protection — as missionaries.

1

Several hundred Pakhoi hogs imprisoned in willow-twig cages on the open afterdeck of the Tomeko Maru squealed with fright as the wind-lashed East China Sea buffeted the ten-thousand-ton Japanese freighter with gathering force. The ship was nearing the end of its seven-week voyage from Tilbury to Shanghai, and the cages had been stacked in layers five and six deep by coolies who had jog-trotted them to the wharves at Pakhoi, close to the Hainan Strait. Only narrow aisles had been left between the stacked cages, and ducks and barnyard fowl piled on top of them in smaller baskets were beginning to squawk anxiously in their turn as the wind rose.

The clamor increased when a young Chinese man and woman, attired in smart Western clothes, paused in their stroll around the deck and walked in among the cages to talk casually with the grimy deck coolie tending the animals. A sallow-faced European who had been walking in the opposite direction stopped when he noticed the incongruously dressed Asians conversing together. Moving quickly into the lee of a suspended lifeboat, he continued to watch the little group discreetly from a position where he could not be seen.

In his second-class cabin close beneath the stern, Jakob Kellner lay on his narrow bunk reading a Chinese language primer, trying to ignore the noise of the frightened hogs and the constant clatter and thump of the vessel’s rudder that penetrated the cabin’s bulk-heads. The boy whose imagination had been fired by a sunburned China missionary in a dismal church hall had grown into a tall, lean, serious-faced young man. At twenty, Jakob was now well over six feet tall — his long angular frame had yet to fill out but his shoulders were broad and straight. His face was determined and strong-jawed, his short, neatly parted hair had retained the fairness inherited from his Swiss father, and the eager impetuosity that had led him to donate his tram fare to China ten years before was still evident in the alertness of his expression. But the long voyage from Tilbury had already made him restless, and as the ship began to roll more noticeably, his attention wandered from the book.

Beyond the porthole the dragon-backed coastline of Fukien was faintly visible in the gathering twilight; the northbound freighter had passed through the broad Formosa Strait and the sight of China’s jagged southeastern mountain ranges quickened the realization in Jakob that soon he would at last set foot on Chinese soil. Landfall in Shanghai was now less than twenty-four hours away, and as he stared out through the porthole at the indistinct knuckles of land, Jakob wondered for the thousandth time on the voyage what he would encounter when he stepped ashore. At the thought that he would know for certain next day, a fist of excitement tightened in the pit of his stomach. Feeling an irresistible urge just to gaze at the enigmatic coastline of which he had dreamed for so long, Jakob flung the book aside, put on his jacket, and left the cramped cabin, heading for the foot of the nearest companionway that led up to the afterdeck.

At that same moment the female figure detached itself from the little group of Asians standing among the hog cages at the stern and began to walk toward the top of the same companionway. The rising wind plucked at her brimmed hat, forcing her to lift a slender arm to hold it in place, and the long European skirt she wore beneath a neatly tailored jacket pasted itself against her slim thighs as she stepped carefully through the gaps between the cages. From the shadow of one of the Tomeko Maru’s lifeboats, the eyes of the watching European followed her closely but she passed his place of concealment without noticing his presence.

As Jakob mounted the narrow companionway leading to the afterdeck, the ship began to pitch and roll more sharply. He had to clutch at the side rails at every step to prevent himself from falling, and as he leaned his weight against the deck door, the ship rolled suddenly to port, swinging it wide open. Thrown off-balance, he almost cannoned into the Chinese girl, who had been reaching for the door from outside. Before she recoiled, their faces almost touched, and for a moment Jakob’s vision seemed to fill with the golden glow of her skin: startled Asiatic eyes grew momentarily round, raven-dark hair shivered and swung to conceal a beguilingly curved cheek. As she leaned instinctively away from him, stretching a hand toward a bulkhead to steady herself, the gusting wind lifted her hat free of her head and bowled it spinning toward the ship’s rails. The same gust swirled out her long skirts, uncovering for an instant the full length of her slender legs from ankle to thigh; then Jakob lunged past her, bent double in pursuit of the hat.

He snatched it up when it flattened itself against the port rails and returned to find its owner waiting inside the closed door at the top of the companionway, her face composed and unsmiling.

I’m very sorry. Jakob inclined his head apologetically. It was all my fault. I almost knocked you over.

Please don’t apologize. We must blame China’s rough seas.

She spoke her accented English carefully without any trace of self-consciousness, and her smile of response was no more than polite. Aged about twenty, she had a striking face, high-cheeked with dark, lustrous eyes. Her glossy black hair was cut in a fashionable long bob that curled softly to her shoulders, and her skirt and jacket of pale worsted matched the color of the now-battered hat that Jakob held before him …

I’m afraid it’s spoiled.

Jakob glanced awkwardly at the sorry object in his hands. It had become crumpled and dented, and the gray felt was wet and muddied from contact with the deck. He reshaped it as best he could and brushed away the mud with the sleeve of his jacket, preparing to hand it back — but he continued to cling to it illogically as he gazed at the Chinese girl.

I’m Jakob Kellner. I’m traveling to Shanghai to take up a post with the Anglo-Chinese Mission.

I hope your work is satisfying, Mr. Kellner.

The girl’s tone was again formal, without real interest. She was graceful and self-possessed in her bearing, and as he looked at her Jakob realized he had seen her come aboard at Hong Kong with other new first-class passengers. Until then he had not had cause to pay her any attention, but the sudden intimacy of their near-collision had produced in him an instinctive desire to prolong the conversation.

May I ask your name? Jakob braced his legs against the ship’s movement, holding the hat against his chest, unconsciously bargaining its return for her name.

I am Lu Mei-ling.

You speak English very well, said Jakob, groping uncertainly for words to justify his actions. Have you been in England?

My brother and I have been studying in Europe for the past two years — he was in Paris and I attended the Royal College of Music in London.

I’ve got sheet music in my cabin trunk — some hymns. Jakob rushed on impulsively, without pausing for thought. There’s a piano on the saloon deck. Perhaps you would like to play them this evening. It might help take all our minds off this storm.

Lu Mei-ling smiled politely again but this time she took firm hold of the companionway rail and held out her free hand. My hat, Mr. Kellner. Thank you for saving it.

Jakob’s face reddened in embarrassment. Please forgive me. I had no right to assume you’d want to play Christian hymns.

You need not apologize. I expect I already know them.

She took the hat from his hands and turned away down the companionway. Feeling both concerned for her safety and startled by the strength of his own reactions to her, Jakob watched the retreating figure of the beautiful Chinese girl until she went out of sight. But although the Tomeko Maru was wallowing in the troughs between waves and rearing over their crests, she descended the tilting steps quickly and confidently without looking back.

2

By the time Jakob stepped out onto the lurching afterdeck, he found the gathering darkness had almost obliterated the Fukien Mountains. The deck’s only other visible human occupants were the hog keeper and the smartly dressed Chinese talking together among the cages in the stern, but as Jakob passed the lifeboat station a bulkhead light came on, illuminating the previously concealed figure of the European standing in the shadows. He wore a pale, double-breasted tropical suit and a white felt homburg, and Jakob had a fleeting impression of a gaunt, weather-beaten face and the glint of narrow eyes looking out watchfully from beneath its brim. Recovering from his surprise, Jakob nodded politely in greeting, but the man made no reply, and Jakob continued to the port rail and leaned against it, staring into the dusk in the direction of the Chinese coast.

The wind, driving up from the south with increasing force, was pushing a growing swell of water past the Tomeko Maru, steepening the inclines over which she rose and fell. Spume whipped from the wave tops stung his face, and in that moment a faint apprehension at the power of the storm began to mingle with the unfamiliar feeling of physical excitement which the encounter with Lu Mei-ling had produced in him. At twenty, he reflected as he stood at the rail, he was still innocent of all sexual experience by conscious choice: after leaving school at fifteen he had become an apprenticed engineer in a textile mill while he waited to enter the Anglo-Chinese Mission’s training college. Because the ambition to become a missionary had developed early, he had gladly allowed the little chapel in Moss Side to dominate his young life and had followed its moral exhortations to the letter. Later, at college, he had conscientiously devoted all his energies to his studies with the distant goal of China in mind, allowing himself few distractions — but this fleeting review of his recent past provided no explanation for the surprising force of the attraction he had suddenly felt to the Chinese girl. In his mind’s eye he could still see her startled almond-shaped eyes close before his face, almost feel the brush of her dark, glossy hair. Having come so near to her, he imagined he could still detect the presence of subtle fragrances which surrounded her, and these sensations persisted with an intensity he found faintly bewildering as he gazed at the white-topped waves mounting around the ship.

Have you ever been in a typhoon before?

The strange voice speaking close to his ear made Jakob start and he turned to find the European in the white homburg standing beside him. He had spoken with a pronounced French accent, raising his voice to make himself heard above the squawking and squealing of the livestock — but although he scanned the rising seas around them, Jakob noticed that the Frenchman’s gaze returned repeatedly to the two Asian figures talking among the hog cages.

Is it really going to be a typhoon? asked Jakob at last, trying to keep his voice casual.

The Frenchman nodded. I think it will reach its peak around midnight.

Jakob’s feeling of anxiety mounted, tightening the muscles of his chest. I’ve never been anywhere near a typhoon before — but I suppose I’ll soon get used to things like this.

Nobody ever gets used to typhoons. They’re best avoided. The Frenchman eyed Jakob’s serviceable suit of inexpensive brown worsted and the cheap brass tiepin which fastened the wings of his collar beneath his tie knot. May I ask, monsieur, what it is that attracts a young Englishman like you to the Orient?

I’m a missionary. This is my first post. Jakob scanned the angry sea in the gathering gloom, making an effort to conceal his growing unease. I’ve wanted to come to China ever since I can remember.

And what do you hope to achieve in China? The Frenchman’s question had a perfunctory tone, as though he had little real interest in the answer, and as he spoke he shifted to a position in which he could keep the stern of the ship under constant scrutiny.

A quarter of the entire human family lives here, many of them in the direst poverty. Confucianism, Buddhism, Taoism — all their own religions are weak and fatalistic. They do almost nothing to lighten the terrible burdens on the people. Millions die in famine and floods … Jakob broke off, aware that he was repeating, parrot-fashion, the words of his mission college teachers; on that tiny ship in the midst of a rising storm, he wondered whether his words appeared foolish, and in an effort to retrieve the situation, he turned earnestly to face the Frenchman. The people of China seem to be unable to save themselves, monsieur. I happen to believe the need to preach the Christian Gospel is greater in China than anywhere else in the world!

I’ve met Chinese military governors with very different views, said the Frenchman dryly. They’ll tell you there are far too many illiterate peasants and coolies. They positively welcome the droughts and the floods which kill their countrymen by the million — they see it as nature’s way of solving China’s problems.

Jakob found himself flinching inwardly at the callousness of the Frenchman’s words but he did not allow his feelings to show. Instead he held out his hand in a formal gesture of greeting. Everyone is entitled to their opinion — my name is Jakob Kellner, monsieur.

Devraux. The Frenchman shook hands without enthusiasm. Jacques Devraux.

Do you know China well, Monsieur Devraux?

I know Indochina better — I served in the Infanterie Coloniale in Tongking. My home now is Saigon. I guide sportsmen who wish to hunt big game in the jungles of Annam. He waved a deprecating hand and stared distractedly toward the stern of the ship again. I suspect you are better equipped than I am for China, Monsieur Kellner.

My own qualifications are very slight, said Jakob tentatively. I studied for two years at the Anglo-Chinese Mission training college in London before I left England — and I’ve only recently begun to learn Chinese …

The Frenchman, who had given up all pretense of listening, was staring openly over Jakob’s shoulder, and almost immediately the missionary heard the rapid sound of approaching footsteps. A moment later a Chinese in his late twenties passed them, walking briskly: he was wearing a well-tailored European suit and carrying a soft hat, and Jakob recognized him as the man who had been talking to the hog keeper. Devraux watched until he left the deck, and as soon as the companionway door closed behind him, he relaxed against the ship’s rail and lit a cheroot.

Did you pass an attractive Chinese girl on your way up to the deck, Monsieur Kellner? he asked with studied casualness.

Yes, I did.

Do you know who she is?

I think her name is Lu Mei-ling. She and her brother have been studying in Europe.

I thought as much. Devraux’s eyes narrowed and he drew thoughtfully on his cheroot, staring in silence toward the stern. When Jakob turned to follow his gaze, he saw only the bent figure of the deck coolie, who was busying himself lashing the willow-twig hog cages together with lengths of rope.

What makes you ask about the Chinese girl and her brother, Monsieur Devraux? asked Jakob in a puzzled voice. Do you know her family?

The Frenchman turned back slowly to face Jakob, almost as if he had forgotten he was there. Your missionary training college may have taught you a lot about China’s ancient religions, Monsieur Kellner. But when you get into the interior you won’t have to worry too much about the disciples of Confucius, the Taoist temples, or the Buddhists. They won’t be your chief danger.

What do you mean?

Didn’t your training college tell you anything about China’s Communists?

We were shown some newspaper stories. I think they said a few ‘Red Bandits’ were fighting in remote areas — but soldiers of the government were tracking them down and finishing them off.

A sardonic smile flitted across Jacques Devraux’s face. The Chinese Nationalists have flung a tight blockade around all the Red areas — that’s true. But I’d be very surprised if they had ‘finished off’ the Communists.

But Monsieur Devraux, said Jakob, mystified, I don’t understand what all this has to do with anyone on this ship.

The Frenchman put a hand on the rail to steady himself as the Tomeko Maru slid crabwise into a trench of foaming water. Turning to Jakob, he looked hard at him as though seeing him properly for the first time and spoke in a sarcastic tone. Monsieur Kellner, the Communists in China — and in Indochina too — are mostly ignorant peasants. But the Asians who lead them and stir them up are often educated men and women. Many of them, unfortunately, have had the benefit of attending universities in England and France. He paused and his voice became heavy with irony. You also ought to know that Chinese from wealthy families don’t normally spend much of their time fraternizing with deck coolies.

Abruptly the Frenchman turned from the rail and hurried away toward the companionway, leaving Jakob staring at the angry waves. As he wrestled with the implications of what Devraux had said, the image of Lu Mei-ling’s face returned unbidden to his mind once more: the dark, upswept eyes that made her face so hauntingly different from those of English girls seemed to swim again before him, and he realized with a slight feeling of shock that her physical beauty had quickly taken on a forbidden quality in his imagination. So startlingly unlike himself, she belonged to the country toward which he already felt a sacred obligation, and these new, disquieting feelings seemed out of keeping with his sense of duty.

On an impulse he closed his eyes and prayed briefly; when he opened them again he found himself looking toward the stern. The hog keeper was still binding the willow-twig cages with frayed ropes, working laboriously without raising his head, and Jakob stood and watched him. The coolie seemed totally absorbed in his task, and try as he might, Jakob could not fully understand the reasons for Jacques Devraux’s suspicions. Inside the cages, the frightened animals seemed to be taking little comfort from their keeper’s efforts to make them secure. Sensing that the storm was worsening, they were becoming restless, and as Jakob hurried from the deck, heading back toward his cabin, their squeals increased, growing shriller and more fearful with each successive shriek of the wind.

3

As the Tomeko Maru headed into the teeth of the typhoon, the ship’s diminutive Japanese captain, with many a deep bow, invited passengers of all classes into the aft saloon for their safety. By midevening a group of about thirty had assembled, among them Europeans, Chinese, Japanese, and Americans. Jakob had seated himself at a small table on his own and was trying to fix his attention on the ideograms in his Chinese language primer but the vessel was pitching and rolling violently, making concentration difficult.

Outside the saloon the night was filled with the roar of the wind and the cries of the badly frightened livestock on the afterdeck. Although few of the passengers had attempted to dine, because of the conditions, most of those traveling first-class had dressed as usual for dinner. Among them Jakob noted Jacques Devraux. Wearing a white smoking jacket and a black tie, the Frenchman had half buried himself behind an old newspaper in a corner of the saloon that, in the tradition of Japanese domestic interiors, was plain and unadorned. Two young Japanese women, in contrast, were arrayed in dazzling kimonos figured in gold, turquoise, and red, and Lu Mei-ling, who was sipping tea and conversing quietly with the smartly dressed Chinese whom Jakob had seen on deck, had chosen for the evening a high-throated, traditional Chinese gown of shimmering turquoise silk. Embroidered with flowers, clouds, and dragons, it fell from shoulder to ankle in a simple unbroken line, leaving her slender figure enigmatically undefined, and Jakob found he had to make a conscious effort not to stare in her direction. On the table before him lay several folios of piano music which he had rummaged from his cabin trunk in the hope that they might provide him with the opportunity of speaking to her, but a nagging anxiety that he might again appear clumsy and tongue-tied if he approached her had so far confined him to his seat.

Neither was he alone in feeling uneasy about the storm — without exception, the faces of all his fellow passengers were pale and apprehensive. Like him, they were doing their best to ignore the erratic movements of the ship, and white-jacketed Japanese stewards continued to move among them, serving drinks and light refreshments as unobtrusively as they had throughout the voyage. But flurries of salt spray lashed the windows every few seconds and tension rose whenever an unguarded glass fell from a table to smash noisily on the floor. Jakob was vaguely aware that the stewards were being summoned frequently to Jacques Devraux’s table as the evening wore on but he was totally unprepared when, on looking up suddenly from his book, he found the Frenchman standing beside him, swaying slightly and clutching a large glass of brandy and soda.

How good will you be, Monsieur Kellner, at gouging out the eyes of Chinese converts who die? asked Devraux in a voice thickened by drink. Will you be able to manage that?

At that moment the Tomeko Maru tipped abruptly into another deep trough and Devraux dropped heavily into the empty chair beside Jakob. Some of the contents of his glass spilled down his jacket front and he cursed softly in his own language, dabbing perfunctorily at the stain with a handkerchief before lifting his gaze to Jakob again.

I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, said Jakob slowly, putting his book aside.

No, I don’t suppose you do. A humorless smile spread across Devraux’s face. But perhaps you’re in luck. By chance I’m able to give you some vital information that every young missionary ought to have before he sets foot in China. The Frenchman took a cheaply printed booklet from an inside pocket of his smoking jacket and flourished it theatrically in Jakob’s direction. It’s all in here.

Jakob could see Chinese characters on the flimsy cover but his knowledge of the language was not sufficient for him to translate them. What exactly is that, Monsieur Devraux? he asked uncertainly.

It has a very quaint title. It’s called ‘Deal a Death Blow to a Corrupt Doctrine’ — the ‘corrupt doctrine’ in question, of course, is Christianity. Devraux laughed unpleasantly. Calling Christianity a corrupt doctrine is just about the nicest thing this book can find to say about the subject. That’s why your college teachers didn’t tell you about it.

Perhaps the college has never heard of it. Jakob leaned forward to inspect the booklet and saw that scribbled translations into English were written in the margins. Where does it come from?

They’ve heard of it, all right, said Devraux, pausing to raise his glass to his lips again. It’s a notorious publication. It was first printed fifty or sixty years ago, before the Boxer Rebellion — to turn the people against your predecessors.

Then it’s just ancient history.

Devraux shook his head exaggeratedly from side to side. No, not at all. Freshly printed copies have been turning up all over Hunan and Kweichow in the last year or two.

Who do you think has been circulating it?

Almost certainly the Reds, Monsieur Kellner. But whoever it is, rest assured they’re no friends of yours.

Devraux drained his glass and wiped his mouth elaborately with the back of his hand; then he raised the book to read and leaned closer to Jakob again to make himself heard above the noise of the wind. They say in the introduction that all Christian missionaries ‘implement their evil designs by gouging out the eyes of dead converts, doing bodily injury to little boys and girls, and concealing the hair and nails of women under doormats.’

He paused and leafed clumsily through several pages before reading again.

Later they get into the more complimentary details.… They say that at the age of three months you give the male offspring of converts special treatment. ‘Hollow tubes are inserted into their bodies to make them dilate. This helps to facilitate sodomy.… At the junction of spring and summer young boys procure and smear female menses on their faces before going to worship. Then fathers, sons, and brothers all join their vital forces and sodomize with one another.… Are the Christians not worse than beasts?’

A feeling of revulsion rose in Jakob but he managed to conceal it. Those are terrible, ugly lies, Monsieur Devraux, he said calmly.

If he heard Jakob’s reply the Frenchman gave no sign. Instead he smiled crookedly and snapped his fingers peremptorily in the direction of a passing Japanese steward to order another drink. It gets better as it goes on, Monsieur Kellner, so listen carefully. He flicked over several more pages and continued to read, laying exaggerated emphasis as before on the more lurid expressions. ‘Sunday services: the old, the young, males and females alike, all take part in these services. Invariably the proceedings end in mass copulation in which the whole congregation participate.…’

Jakob drew away from Devraux and half rose from his seat, intending to move away — but the Frenchman reached out and placed a restraining hand on his arm. Wait! That’s not the worst of it. In case you’re still in doubt about whether the Communists will make you welcome in China, I’ll read you just one more extract. Again he flicked at the pages. Ah yes, here we are … ‘All Westerners regard the menstrual flow of women as the most precious gift of God. That is why they vie with one another to obtain and drink it. This accounts for the unbearable stench some of them have!’

Jakob freed himself from the Frenchman’s grip and stood up. The floor of the saloon was heaving, making balance difficult, and he had to hold on to a chair back to steady himself as he picked up his sheets of piano music from the low table. Devraux was already holding a fresh glass of brandy and soda which the steward had brought him and he watched Jakob over the brim, still smiling crookedly, as he drank.

You must excuse me, Monsieur Devraux. Jakob gestured toward the folios in his hand. I think some music might help pass the time for us more pleasantly.

Turning his back on Devraux, Jakob made his way unsteadily across the saloon. As he went, a long, low rumbling sound was heard from the direction of the afterdeck; this was followed by a series of grinding thuds and a new burst of squealing from the hogs. Jakob swung around to stare in alarm at the windows facing the stern and all the other passengers fell silent, following his gaze. But nothing could be seen in the howling blackness beyond the glass and, fighting down his apprehension, Jakob continued to pick his way among the tables until he reached the settee where Lu Mei-ling was seated.

Good evening, Miss Lu, he said hesitantly, holding the folios toward her. I’ve brought the music I told you about.

A small frown furrowed Mei-ling’s brow and for a moment she did not reply. Then she turned and spoke in English to her companion. This is Jakob Kellner. He’s a missionary on his way to take up his first post in China.

My name is Lu Chiao, Mr. Kellner! I’m Mei-ling’s brother.

The Chinese who sprang up smiling to offer his hand was brisk and energetic. About six or seven years older than Jakob and almost as tall, he showed no outward sign of being afraid of the storm, and his direct manner bore no trace of the self-effacing humility traditionally cultivated by his educated countrymen. He had strong, regular features, wore a small modern moustache still rare among Chinese, and he seized Jakob’s hand in a grip that was firm and confident.

I’m very glad to know you, responded Jakob, warming to the friendly greeting. Your sister told me earlier she knew some Christian hymns and I was hoping she might play for us. He turned and motioned toward a small upright piano at the end of the saloon. I’ve brought some hymn music from my cabin. I thought we might all sing ‘Eternal Father’ — it might help us through the storm.

Although Mei-ling and I had a missionary school education in Shanghai, we no longer believe in Christianity, said Chiao firmly, still smiling at Jakob. But please sit down for a moment with us. I remember the hymn. It has a fine tune. He turned to his sister with a smile as he took his seat again. Do you remember ‘Eternal Father’?

Mei-ling thought for a moment. Yes, I think so.

Leaning forward eagerly in his chair, Jakob picked out the music and offered it to her. Then will you consider playing it for us?

Mei-ling reached out to take the music from him and began looking through it. Their eyes met for only an instant but again Jakob felt the same strange exhilaration he had experienced at the rail of the ship after their first encounter that afternoon. Although she held her head proudly, there seemed to be a faint shimmer of a smile in Mei-ling’s expression and again the beguiling slant of her eyes and the soft ocher tint of her skin had an almost mesmerizing effect on him. He sensed suddenly that during that brief glance he had caught a fleeting glimpse of the very soul of the Chinese girl and that she in some indefinable way had shared in his awareness of a rare moment.

If you wish it, said Mei-ling quietly without raising her eyes from the music, I will play the hymn.

It will give you more pleasure, I hope, Mr. Kellner, than your talk with the French passenger who seems suspicious even of his own shadow, said Chiao jocularly. I couldn’t help noticing that you weren’t enjoying his company.

For a moment Jakob again felt confused and flustered: he wondered whether somehow his uncomfortable conversation with Devraux had been overheard. Then he realized it would have been impossible above the noise of the storm, and looking up, he found Chiao smiling at him good-humoredly.

I would guess he is some kind of colonial policeman, am I right, Mr. Kellner? He spent a lot of time watching us have a casual talk with a deck coolie today. He seems to think nothing has an innocent explanation. He probably makes many remarks about the dangers of Communism in Asia. And believes his role is to rescue the whole continent from revolutionaries and the ‘Red menace.’ Am I correct?

Jakob smiled and nodded in mystification. I’m not sure — perhaps you are.

And what about you, Mr. Kellner? continued Chiao. Why did you choose to come to China?

I’ve wanted to come to your country since I was ten years old, replied Jakob quietly. I heard a missionary talking about China. I was fascinated and after that I never wanted to do anything else.

Two years at the training college in London had softened and blurred Jakob’s northern accent without removing every trace of Lancashire from his speech — while his manner was not polished, he conducted himself with a natural courtesy that hinted at inner strength, and sensing this, Chiao sat forward in his seat, looking at him with greater interest.

And are you from an old colonial family, Mr. Kellner?

No, nobody in my family has ever traveled outside Europe before. My father works in a cotton mill in the north of England. I was an apprentice at the same factory for three years while I was waiting to go to missionary college …

Another ominous rumbling sound from the deck interrupted Jakob and again everyone in the saloon turned to stare out apprehensively into the night. As the passengers watched, the shadowy figure of the deck coolie became dimly visible, scrambling with difficulty across the pitching deck, clutching at loose hog cages. All the time the noise made by the frightened animals was continuing without letup and Jakob noticed that the faces of many of the passengers around him were growing more tense. Even Chiao’s expression had grown serious as he peered out through the windows.

You told me just now you no longer believed in Christianity, said Jakob, restarting the conversation to distract attention from the storm. May I ask what made you change your mind?

China, unfortunately, is a very sick country, Mr. Kellner, replied Chiao, lowering his voice. My father is among the lucky few. He owns several textile factories in Shanghai. That’s why he sent me and my sister to a Christian missionary school. But I came to realize long ago that Christianity can’t cure China’s illness.

What do you think can?

A guarded look came into Chiao’s eyes. Great political changes are required, Mr. Kellner, he said shortly. But this is not the place to discuss them. He glanced at his sister, who was still holding the piano music in her lap. Perhaps it would be a good idea now to take up Mr. Kellner’s suggestion to play the piano. That hymn has a rousing chorus, if I remember. Whether we’re Christians or not, it would be good for everybody to sing and drown out the storm, wouldn’t it?

Chiao stood up and motioned them toward the piano. As Mei-ling got to her feet, the ship lurched sharply and Jakob reached out to steady her, placing one hand under her left elbow. Escorting her to the piano, he became keenly aware of the warmth of her flesh through the thin silk sleeve of her dress and he relinquished his hold reluctantly at the piano stool.

When Jakob announced to the saloon that the hymn was to be sung, most of the European and American men and women left their seats and crossed the tilting floor to join the little group around the piano. The rumbling noise from the afterdeck began again as the typhoon tore at the Tomeko Maru with renewed fury, but the moment Mei-ling played the stirring opening chords, the little group of singers launched spiritedly into the hymn.

"Eternal Father, strong to save,

Whose arm doth bind the restless wave,

Who bidd’st the mighty ocean deep,

Its own appointed limits keep …"

Mei-ling, to Jakob’s surprise, struck the keys with all the force and slow deliberation that the sonorous seafaring hymn of praise demanded; although her hands were small and delicate, she seemed to sense intuitively in the mighty chords the hymn’s deep feeling of yearning and supplication offered at the brink of awful calamity. Standing by her side, Jakob felt himself drawn to her anew — all sense of danger evaporated momentarily as his eyes took in her slim shoulders, the youthful curve of her neck, the sheen of the pale turquoise silk that concealed her small breasts. In her playing of the hymn, too, there was a passion which her rejection of its religious sentiments did nothing to diminish. In the core of the typhoon she was giving something vital of herself, and quite illogically, Jakob suddenly felt in his heart that he was the chief recipient of her gift. It seemed as if the tempestuous seas, the Tomeko Maru, and all sailing in her had been assembled and brought together just so that he might feel and know the intensity of this dizzying emotion. Beside him, Chiao was singing every line with great gusto and Jakob, feeling a joyousness well up within him, sang with all the power of his lungs, drowning out momentarily even the wind’s roar and the terror of the hogs.

"O, hear us when we cry to Thee,

For those in peril on the sea!"

At the moment that Mei-ling lifted her hands to begin the next verse, the rumbling on the afterdeck grew louder. In quick succession two thunderous blows were struck against the outer bulkhead of the saloon. A flare of crimson blood splattered across one window and those passengers who turned their eyes toward the sound quickly enough saw a grotesquely distorted animal face flatten itself against the thick glass; it remained visible for only an instant before whirling away upward into the night, followed by a despairing banshee wail. The second willow-withe cage shattered on impact with the bulkhead and its squirming, shrieking hog scudded bloodily along the whole length of the saloon’s windows before a great fist of wind plucked it up and hurled it into the boiling sea.

The noise from outside became a continuous roll of thunder as the mass of hog cages, which had broken free of their ropes, shifted and slid back and forth. Many cages were sucked intact over the rails: others broke open as they smashed together, releasing the imprisoned hogs for a few terrified moments of freedom on the slippery, wave-drenched mountainsides of the deck. The abrupt cessation of the hogs’ agonized wails as they were swallowed one after another into the heaving seas chilled the human listeners in the aft saloon.

Mute with horror, the group that had been singing around the piano backed toward the one solid bulkhead, staring at the windows. They all flinched whenever the wind smashed another cage or its squealing occupant against the ship’s superstructure, and they froze when they saw the deck coolie slide slowly into view. He was scrabbling desperately for a foothold on the seesawing deck, trapped amid a mass of fear-crazed