The Three Leaps of Wang Lun (59 page)

Returning from his ride around the town, Wang asked the younger of the Ming cousins whether he was married. He was not. Wang studied the delicate, deeptanned boy, suggested that he might like to consider marrying. The slender fellow turned his long face away, smiling: he rejoiced at Wang’s friendly manner; he had kept a little box of candied dates for Wang, and they would have nice times together. Wang seconded that, and where had he got the dates from? Sucking and spitting in front of a tent they looked contentedly at one another. It was a long time since he’d tasted dates like these, thought Wang; the last time in Shantung, long ago now. In Poshan once he’d been invited to the house of a merchant, a leader of the White Waterlily; he’d had to eat lots of them there and enjoyed himself. Yes, replied the Ming, they were quite rare in this region, especially now. Was he really not married, continued Wang. Marrying in wartime was a sign of great prudence; for you might have a son and then you’d die happier. Now, he didn’t need to look at him like that. Straight to the point: would the young Ming like to marry the daughter of general Chao Hui? If he wanted to, he had only to give the nod; Wang would play matchmaker.

The young fellow bowed very gravely to Wang; he didn’t want to harm Wang, but he didn’t deserve to be made fun of; he set no store by his Ming ancestry these days. Wang repeated unruffled: it
was all so clear and simple, if Chao Hui gave away his daughter it would mean the general was won over. If he didn’t give her away—well then, they’d see. The Mings shouldn’t show themselves hostile: disarm with peace offerings, think diplomatically. Confused, blushing, the Ming stammered something. Anyhow, said Wang firmly, before they set about cooking the millet it was all settled that he, the Ming, being unbetrothed, had entrusted Wang with the matchmaking. He must now write down his birthday, year, month, hour, for the eventual horoscopes.

There were adherents of the sectarians in the town. The besiegers tried to establish contact with them. Their initial efforts to despatch information and assignations on scraps of paper in hollowed lances came to nought. Either the messages did not arrive or they went to the wrong address: every failed attempt added to the work of the brothers inside. More promising was the sea route.

Two days after the siege began, a great fleet of well manned ships arrived off the town from the south. The besiegers, at first jubilant because the sailors did not wear Imperial uniform but were clearly pirates, were severely disappointed at their first approach. The rebels’ junks were simply rammed by two of the great ships. They were pirates hired by the Tsungtu of Chihli, their leader rewarded in advance with a peacock’s feather from the Emperor. They sat proud in the water, captured suspicious boats, extorted money from the town and settlements along the coast and patronised Chao Hui.

Wang Lun went with fifty of his boldest followers into one of these coastal villages. He told his men they’d open the town gates from within. Well armed they approached the fishing village where the crews of three great ships were lying. Noisily they emerged from a lane into the main street that crept past eroded dunes. The surprised pirates in straw hats and woven straw cloaks came from the houses into the street. Wang climbed up to a tavern with a
crowd in front of it, asked who the ships out there belonged to.

One of them, about Wang’s size but probably not their leader, pushed to the fore and said it was none of Wang’s business. Wang knocked his wide straw hat off: he shouldn’t talk like that; if the ownership of the vessels was unclear, then he and his companions would take them. The pirates roared cheerfully: to be sure they had no owners, but meanwhile they belonged to them, and they weren’t about to give them up.

Then he was quite satisfied, said Wang. He’d only wanted to know, that was all. But had they seen any smaller ships anywhere, sailing junks, that might be taken? He and his friends wanted to go to sea, since there was nothing doing on land.

The pirates agreed with that; regarding the newcomers with the smugness of possession said mockingly: to be sure there were junks ready for the finding; they were spry looking lads, doubtless good swimmers all. During the recent hailstorm sixty small junks and five big ships had been taken, six li offshore. They’d be easy to get hold of, they didn’t belong to anyone now and were splendidly fitted out. If they knew how to dive they couldn’t miss the boats; they were over that way, south by east.

Wang found this advice extraordinary; he’d take good note of such precise directions. Of course his comrades, like himself, were too little used to the water to indulge in such strenuous diving practice right away. Since according to their description the matter was so simple they could all get something out of it. He and his companions would take over the ships out there (as landlubbers they were better suited to such work), while they could swim beside the ships. He’d be sure to lead them to the exact spot, six li offshore, where the sixty small junks and five big ships were waiting.

Silence and whispering among the pirates, quizzical looks on both sides. The beach was empty, the sailors crowded in front of
the tavern. They saw the strangers’ axes, daggers, bows.

As they kept silent, Wang said they should think the matter over quietly. Meanwhile he’d go down to the beach with his gang and take a look at the ships.

After some toing and froing among the stocky men who seemed to be the leaders, one of them with a hare lip came up to Wang and asked politely who they were. A regretful smile played on the impassive face of the stranger: he could smite his breast for forgetting such basic manners. You picked up such uncouth habits on the highways. They came from various villages of north Shantung, had joined forces so as to break through to a more fertile country; nothing had gone their way; near Peking they’d been forced to merge with the rebels but had been defeated, had eaten dogrice for a couple of days in the College of Great Humanity in Peking, now wanted to try their luck at sea.

And why were they so heavily armed.

So as not to have to beg any more.

After this exchange the interlocutors stepped back with deep bows. Wang’s people barred the street on both sides; the situation for the pirates was hopeless.

Then they came to Wang with a proposal, urging him and several others into the tavern. They said they’d been hired by the Emperor with their ships for the defence of Shanhaikwan. Perhaps the strangers would like to join them and earn good Imperial pay.

Wang expressed willingness, if the pay was high enough for him and his people.

Certainly: every man would get two taels for two months’ work.

The strangers conferred among themselves. Their leader replied that it wasn’t enough. Apart from that, what security would be given. As soon as they reached harbour they’d be jeered at and set ashore.

After much haggling, agreement was reached. The armed strangers take over two ships as security, the third ship sails into harbour, fetches back half the money, whereupon they all approach the town. If the third ship comes back with police, it counts as treachery and will be avenged on the crews of the other two ships.

The plan was put into action. Wang got the money, they boarded the ships, anchored off the town. When they disembarked at the pirates’ invitation the adventure came to a swift end, for behind their boats echoed the mocking laughter of the sailors, whose trick had succeeded. The ships, putting back to sea with the others, were lost to Wang and his men.

Wang and several companions went into the town, complaining for the other half of their money. The mandarins turned him away: such contracts had no legal force, there was no way to arrest the pirates, for the present they were friends of the Son of Heaven. He unearthed his followers in the town, changed his clothing, strolled in the markets and streets. Several days were taken up with loitering, visiting temples, listening to gossip, haggling with pipesellers, lounging in teahouses. It was fine fresh summer weather. He paid no attention to his companions during these days. Then he gathered them all at the house of a prison warder: his intention was to stir up incidents in the town leading to revolts, and then they’d see how it went.

Chao Hui’s palace stood solitary behind the town on the northwestern Magnolia Slope. The defeated general seldom left the house, wandered from room to room, from the courtyard into the garden. He no longer stood at the window facing the sea; it angered him that the sea lay there to which the rebels had forced him back, that his soldiers and his commander’s luck were as nothing and he like a cat about to be drowned, yowling up and down beside the water.

He sat much in his study with its frieze-covered walls, puffed on a hookah and brooded. He was a fine gate guard of Peking! By a puzzling turn of the battle Peking was saved at the last moment; he was trapped on the coast; where was his martial glory, what did Ch’ien-lung think? He could no longer accuse A-kuei and knowing eunuchs of despatching him to hopeless tasks. There was a battle. He was defeated. Ch’en Yuan-li, the young inexperienced Tsungtu of Chihli, will take pleasure in relieving the town. The lord of Shantung and Pi-yuan of Honan will gain honour at the expense of Chao the failure. He’d lost face. Shame on his house, shame on his ancestors.

Youthful Hai-t’ang, his principal wife, consoled the melancholy man. She drove her greying husband out of the house to inspect walls, keep discipline in the town. But Chao detested this town that once he had loved. He loathed its ambiguous citizens, was reluctant to see the deceitful Taot’ai T’ang Shao-yi, who when the troops entered the town had expressed gratitude that he would now be spared the fate of the neighbouring magistrates, admittedly at the expense of his revered friend Chao Hui. The wounds of his son Lao-hsü had long since healed; the general sat idly with him at games of morra, sat in the women’s quarters, listened to his wife as she instructed their sweet fifteen year old daughter Nai on the p’ip’a.

One morning, while the entire body of troops was exercising on the elevated ground between town and wall, from an alley in the northwest of the town emerged as if from the earth a gaudy festive procession heading straight for Chao Hui’s house. It appeared to concern some happy event: the men, following two goldpainted sedan chairs, wore long red scarves over their black garb. With gongbeats and cries of “Make way!” they marched in the warm sunlight; the train snaked rapidly towards solitary Magnolia Hill. The “Little Father without a tongue”, Chao’s house slave,
bowing grotesquely, accepted the enormous red visiting card that was handed to him from one of the chairs.

The lean mandarin inside put on his chain of pearls, went to meet his guests in the Hall of Twelve Green Pillars. An unknown Manchurian name was written on the card. Six of the strangers, their demeanour grave, strong expressive faces, entered the hall:

Wang Lun and five companions. Wang introduced himself first by the Manchurian name on the card, the others with invented names, then at the invitation of the host they sat at a little table between two pillars and were silent. Chao Hui clapped his hands for servants and tea. Blood flowed into his face; no one appeared. In shame he begged his guests’ forgiveness, clapped again trembling with agitation. But the strangers brushed the matter aside, soothing: they were here on business, arrived by ship, would stay only a short while; menials were the same everywhere.

They exchanged quizzical glances. With a sudden movement Chao made to rise and look for the servants, but again the strangers begged him not to trouble himself; their affair could be settled expeditiously.

Again they were silent. Wang, in a black gown that did not reach his ankles, took a fan from his girdle, hardened his expression, said with a cold unwavering stare that he and his companions were come to ask for the hand of the renowned general’s daughter. During a sojourn in the Lower Reaches he had heard of the cultivated and artistic Hai-t’ang, daughter of the former Tsungtu of Anhui, Huang Tzu-tung; the whole town spoke of the delicacy and good breeding of the daughter. The approach might be unorthodox, but the master on whose behalf he had come had no other means of developing the connection. With his long arm he passed across the bare table a large red envelope containing the personal particulars.

The general sat rigid. The corner of his mouth twitched. Wang spoke calmly, invited him to open the envelope; what did the old rhyme say: “How does one cut an axe handle? Without an axe it is impossible. How does one take a wife? Without a matchmaker she cannot be got.”

When the general, glancing at the visiting card, moved his lips, opened his mouth, tonelessly asked who he was, the guest replied that the visiting card was to deceive the servants. He was Wang Lun, a leader of the besieging army. He was acting for a Ming prince who was to ascend the throne. Admittedly this man was a Chinese; but no Chinese despised the Manchus to the extent that he would not seek a well-bred Manchu daughter for his principal wife.

The mandarin, springing up, rushed to the gong, shouted, “Servants! Tai-tsung! Tai-tsung!”

The strangers scrambled to their feet as the mandarin rushed past to the window. Two covered the window; Chao Hui, slipping past, falling, was lifted up by iron hands, steered with much bowing back to his place.

Wang listened at the door, at the window; in a trice stood before the bitterly groaning general with the dispirited eyes. The bill of particulars had been brought, the betrothal sought; now it was up to the general to take the letter to the bride and collate the good and evil fortune of the eight marriage signs. They would take back his answer.

The general struck the table, exploded: “Criminals! Scoundrels!” Four held him, bound arms and legs with red scarves, laid him in the dark passageway by the door. Wang whispered, “Think it over, general. We’ll be back.” And with a thick writing brush that he took from a wall cabinet he painted on the polished floor of the hall the menacing sign of the Ming dynasty. Already two of the men were climbing into the sedan chairs outside in the yard; gongs,
cries of “Make way!” In a flash the procession was off down Magnolia Hill, disappeared into a side alley.