It was noon. François pushed his way through the peasants until the missionaries were finally clustered together.
“You know who I am,” the mandarin shouted. “Why are you trying to hide? For two years your village has neglected to pay land taxes and perform its annual statutory duty to the king. Today you must settle these debts or face dreadful consequences. Where is your elder? Where is that SL? Let him come forth!”
The horse neighed as if to emphasize its master’s words. No one dared to speak. The naked children hid behind their mothers’ ragged skirts.
François watched the mandarin’s yellow face, beaded with sweat. His features were distorted into a grimace of hate and exhaustion. It had been more than a year since François had seen the governor. Time had worn his withered body. It seemed to the priest that this was not a healthy man. He wondered if he should speak up on the villager’s behalf, but decided it was not his place to interfere.
“Where is that elder of yours?” the governor shouted, devouring the captives with his eyes. “Who among you will show me the hut in which that rat is hiding? Make haste and speak up! I don’t like to be kept waiting.”
A murmur spread among the huddled villagers. The governor veiled a triumphant smile beneath his fringe of whiskers. Before anyone could speak, SL, the village elder, pushed forward, leaning on a black staff. His footsteps dragged on the damp earth. He wore the brown ceremonial robe, the same one that François regularly borrowed to celebrate Mass. From his waist, the long skirt of the tunic separated into two panels, tattered and caked with dirt. The governor gave a thin chuckle.
“Oh, Master TuyBn,” said SL, “there is no need to set a price on me. I am of no value. Must you come here in person, armed with guards so strong and so full of rage? You frighten the women and children.”
“I’ve come to collect the king’s taxes,” snapped the governor.
“We are poor peasants, Mandarin TuyBn,” said SL, pointing at the few acres of rice paddies around them. “As you can see for yourself, we have very few young men to plow the soil. Many have run off into the mountains. Without a large crop, we have no means of paying our tribute. We barely have enough food to feed ourselves.”
Anger flashed in the governor’s eyes. His hands gripped the horse’s reins and pulled back. The animal gave a cry and reared its front legs upward. One flailing hoof kicked the wooden staff from SL’s grasp. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.
“Then what do you do all day, old man?”
The elder opened his mouth to reply. But before he had a chance, Mandarin TuyBn interrupted him. “It would take more than a few hectares of uncultivated lands for you to convince me that you are destitute. Any dog, cattle, or creature that lives in this land must pay its taxes to the king, and so must the people of Kim Lai. How can you be so disloyal? Not only have you stopped paying your public dues and encouraged your men to run away, but you are also harboring these white ghosts who preach the words of a foreign god. If their god is so powerful, why didn’t he bless you with gold and silver and many healthy sons?”
SL fumbled on the wet ground in search of his staff. François, unable to remain still, strode forward, picked up the rod, and handed it to him. The old man leaned on François’s arm. The warhorse’s breath was above them, hot and impatient. Despite his fear, the priest kept his expression calm. God’s strength was within him. His disciples were watching. He retreated back into the crowd out of respect for Mr. SL. This was a secular matter. The old man must handle it his way.
“But the people have nothing to offer you,” said SL, returning his attention to Mandarin TuyBn. “It is you that force them to run away, sire. Your very presence makes everyone want to flee.”
“Don’t flatter me, old man,” said the governor. “Your people have one thing that I could put to use: the children.”
The village chief cried out in disbelief. His tunic’s skirts whipped in the wind. The crowd behind him shuddered. Mandarin TuyBn’s men drew closer. Rattan ropes with grappling hooks flew from one soldier to the next as they prepared to attack. The women sank down on their haunches and clutched their children to their bosoms. Their husbands and fathers formed a circle around them.
“You would not be so cruel, dear sir,” croaked the elder. “Beware of your retribution in heaven’s eye. The children are all we have left in this village. Take the cattle and the oxen. We will pull the plows ourselves. Or take us. But please, spare our young.”
TuyBn stayed motionless. François thought he saw the mandarin furrow his brow. He prayed to see some compassion come alive on the governor’s face. Surely if François entrusted his fate to God, he would be rewarded with a miracle. He must!
But the mandarin remained adamant. François heard a clamor behind him. He turned and saw that a few guards had spurred their horses to charge through the crowd. Some of the villagers were caught between the animals, fighting the soldiers with their bare hands. The air filled with anguished cries. Among the voices, François heard Sister Lucía’s scream.
A soldier rode his stallion at a gallop into the group of nuns, shouting to frighten everyone else out of his way. With a clenched fist, he threw a punch at one of François’s disciples. It was LGc, Mr. SL’s son, who had been François’s first convert. The boy fell to the ground, his face bloody. In the same motion, the horseman leaned forward, wrapped his arm around the waist of the blond nun, lifted her off her feet, and flung her facedown on his saddle. She let out another cry that echoed through the barren fields. Her white legs, like the wings of a trapped moth, kicked in desperation. The soldiers cheered. Her captor’s hair and beard streamed as he made a circle around the prisoners.
“Stop, you fools!” cried the mandarin. His voice was shrill and high.
At once the guards returned to their original posts, waiting for their master’s next command. François felt he had received an answer to his prayer—the mandarin had revealed his empathetic side. Without thinking, he ran toward the soldier who was holding Sister Lucía. Her frightened, flushed face was being forced downward by the soldier’s burly hand. Soft locks of her long blond hair dangled below the horse’s belly.
“Release her!” His voice quivered, weak as a child’s.
The eyes of the mandarin were upon him. He prayed for God to be on his side. Whatever happened now was beyond his control. Suddenly he became aware of the silence he had just created.
“Man from the evil land of the West,” said the mandarin, “I have warned your kind not to make empty promises to me. It has been over a year; where is my tribute? Where are my cannons, gunpowder, and all the supplies I was guaranteed? How dare you preach your religion or build your home in my province without paying your dues? Now you are turning the peasants against me with your falsehoods. No one works anymore. You have brought nothing but misfortune to my land. Compared to the mountain rebels, you are even more dangerous.”
François gathered courage. “You must have patience, sire. Captain Petijean is a man of his word. If he promised to bring you those things, he will, as soon as his ships arrive.”
TuyBn cracked his riding crop. It stung as it slashed against François’s face. He could hear the governor’s voice roar in unrestrained fury. “White devil, I have waited long enough. I blame you and your false cult for everything that became ill fated. Today I shall teach you a lesson for disrespecting our culture, our laws, and our ancestral deities.” Turning to his guards, he commanded, “Arrest all the foreigners and those that follow them.”
The crowd slid away at the sight of the soldiers’ advancing horses. Henri and the two nuns stood frozen on the riverbank, as if paralyzed by the mandarin’s venomous hatred. Nearby, LGc rose to his feet. Blood and sand trickled from a large cut on his upper lip. He spat a tooth on the ground, turned to the mandarin, and cursed. His voice was lost in the tumult.
The horseman that held Sister Lucía laughed and asked, “Master, will you reward us with this female devil?”
His request received a cackle from Mandarin TuyBn.
“Let me go!” Sister Lucía screamed. Her accent ignited a burst of laughter from the soldiers.
Ma S?207-156?ur Pâle sprang forward, brushing past François. She grabbed the blond nun’s feet and tried to whirl her off the saddle, but was too weak to succeed. In a rage, she pounded her fists on the mounted soldier’s leg. The man stopped laughing. He had not expected this reaction from the nun. He clutched his reins as his horse spun away from her. François thought she would be trampled under the charging steed. But she clung on, sinking her teeth and nails into the soldier’s flesh. He roared in pain.
Another soldier came to his rescue, thrusting a pitchfork straight into her back. So great was the force of his blow that the implement’s spikes slipped right through her. Ma S?207-156?ur Pâle fell against the horse. Inside her muddy black robe, her long, bony limbs jutted outward in a convulsion. The guard lifted her off the ground, allowing her body to stiffen before he thrust it back down. It was a long, agonizing moment watching her die.
Sister Regina lay still on the ground.
The horse that carried the other soldier and his blond captive continued turning until François came face to face with Sister Lucía. She was screaming uncontrollably. But her cries ceased when she saw the corpse of the older nun.
She looked at François, eyes wide with horror. Then a surprising calmness overcame her. “If you live to see Brother João,” she said to François, “please tell him that I have always loved him.”
One of the royal soldiers came from behind François and struck the side of his head with a club. He fell on his face. The pain was almost bearable, but the ringing in his ear was deafening. From the muddy ground, he looked up, searching for Sister Lucía. The soldier had taken her away. He saw a few thin strands of smoke coming from the roof of his mission. From inside, red tongues of fire reached upward, consuming the entire year of his labor.
Quinion,
1775
M
andarin TuyBn, governor of Quinion Province, was furi- ous as he neared his home three days later. Sitting astride his gray stallion on a small hill overlooking his properties, he frowned at the untended rice paddies and burned remains of cornfields. The deserted, tumbledown thatched huts of his villages were as dispiriting as they had been when he left. His failure to collect taxes from his farmers added to his frustration. Behind this devastation were the rebellious peasants who called themselves the West Mountaineers. In this dilemma, TuyBn stood alone.
The opulent city of Quinion was about three hundred kilometers south of Hue City, the capital of the South Kingdom. To travel this great distance would take several days, and to get aid from King Due Tong’s military troops would take at least another six months. His Majesty was only nineteen, and the actual ruler of the country was his chief adviser, Vice-king Truong Loan, who would never authorize an army unless he received a substantial bribe. The rebels understood Mandarin TuyBn’s weakened position and took advantage of it. They raided his granaries, torched his fields, and stole his cattle. Even if the peasants’ forces overcame his stronghold, it would take weeks before the young king could learn the news and take action. By then Hue City, too, would be in danger.
The leaders of the Mountaineers were three brothers: NhCc, Thom, and Lu. To TuyBn, they were not strangers, for the eldest brother, NhCc, had been employed in his service as a tax collector. Two years earlier, after collecting large sums of money for the government, NhCc had yielded to the temptations of gambling, and in an evening of recklessness, he lost the entire fortune to a group of Chinese businessmen from Wuchow.
The punishment for his crime was a death sentence for three generations: NhCc and his brothers, his father, and his children. Having no other choice, the family had retreated deep into the mountains. NhCc and his brothers lived as outlaws, stealing from the wealthy landowners. They began recruiting peasants, woodsmen, and forest people to join them. Soon the three brothers were able to assemble a ragged army from those who were angered by the corruption and wealth of the noblemen.
As the number of rebels grew, Mandarin TuyBn would wake up every morning to news of their actions. In the cloak of night, the bandits crept into his city, robbing from the rich houses like rats chewing at a sack of rice. They would distribute their spoils among the downtrodden, and this strategy steadily increased their popularity, strength, and numbers. Soon the roads to other towns were blocked, and his province stopped functioning. The well-to-do relocated to Quinion Citadel to be near the soldiers’ protection.
Through two meager harvests, Mandarin TuyBn watched his estate decay around him while he lived in fear. His rage, finding no release, manifested itself in ailments. He frequently felt ill, with an acid burning in his throat, and his stomach bloated until it was taut with pain. One morning, he woke up to find chunks of his hair on the pillow. All the rare herbs and therapeutic needles prescribed by his physicians failed to ease his pain. To his chagrin, he could no longer find an interest in his concubines. Even the tiger’s testicles—the most potent of all remedies—could not reignite his passion.
To make matters worse, his household was burdened by an expensive and demanding houseguest. It was the practice of Vice-king Truong Loan to send members of his family for extended visits with the warlords of outlying regions. It was a clever strategy that served two purposes—planting spies within the local authorities and placing the cost of their upkeep on the shoulders of local rulers. Prince Hoàng, King Due Tong’s twenty-seven-year-old cousin, had been soaking up Quinion’s resources during the past eight years as TuyBn’s guest, and there was no end in sight.
Mandarin TuyBn made an impatient gesture to his retinue and turned his horse’s head back toward Quinion. A man in his forties, he was tired, bloated, and itchy. The snug cummerbund he wore squeezed his belly, making the ride on horseback unbearable. A group of twenty-some bodyguards with swords at their belts followed him, pulling behind them cages of trapped prisoners from Kim Lai Village. Recognizing their master’s dark mood, the men plodded along in silence.
TuyBn thought of a golden past when the earth offered abundance and small trips to collect rents, such as this one, had brought sheer satisfaction. Now his life was just a string of disappointments. Even with a fair harvest this season on the cultivated fields, most of his tenants refused to render what was due to him. He could no longer force them to sell their cattle or their tools to pay their rent, for he knew if he did they would simply abandon their homes and flee to the forest. Brewing his rage in silence, he had no choice but to treat them well.
On his journey, Kim Lai was the last village that he had visited. There he faced more of the same problems he had encountered throughout the countryside. He was convinced he was losing his grip on the farmers. Unable to discipline them, yet knowing he had to punish someone in order to reassert his authority, TuyBn was at his wits’ end when he encountered the Western missionaries. To save himself, his family, and his fortune, the mandarin released his wrath on the foreigners. They were dispensable, and they would serve as a good lesson to the others.
A trial was unnecessary to condemn the missionaries. All would be put to death, including the two Frenchmen and five of their Annamite disciples. As for the two nuns who survived, he gave them to his soldiers as their prize. None of these decisions caused him any remorse. On the contrary, his renewed sense of accomplishment helped restore his peace of mind.
Before long, he and the guards approached the east entrance of Quinion. To his surprise, two strangers were waiting for him at the gate, seemingly a father and son. They looked alike, both with deep-set brown eyes and strong jaws. Their clothes were made of fine black silk. The style of their attire and the queues hanging at the back of their heads told him they were Chinese.
As his horse neared, the older one, his face taut with politeness, stopped the animal by grasping its bridle. The younger one remained standing at the edge of the stone wall, clutching a straw hat with both hands and acknowledging Mandarin TuyBn with a bow. As TuyBn studied the two of them, he found no trace of dirt under the long fingernails. A scroll was half hidden in the opening of the older man’s sleeve. Both men glanced at the prisoners with curiosity.
“You are Mandarin TuyBn?” the Chinese man asked.
The mandarin stared at the narrow face and pulled at his horse’s reins, breaking the man’s hold. “Yes, I am,” he replied.
“I am here to warn you that your enemy is coming.”
It took Mandarin TuyBn a moment to realize what the stranger meant. “The West Mountaineers,” he croaked.
“Indeed. Their leader, young NhCc, is heading this way.”
Surprise, incredulity, then panic overwhelmed TuyBn, and he gave a little laugh to mask his fear. “Who are you? And why do you come to me with this information?”
“I am called Wang Zicheng from Wuchow, and this is my son Qui. We are your neighbors. For five years we have owned a gambling house in Song Cau.”
“I have heard your name before,” TuyBn said with shock. “According to rumor, that dog NhCc lost all of the government’s money to you. Do you know it is a crime to keep that wealth, even if you won it from a gambler?”
Wang reached for the note in his sleeve and handed it to TuyBn. “This is a letter I received from him, requesting a night of gambling at my club. I know he plans to rob me before he attacks Quinion. Sire, we both know that you haven’t got the military power to hold him back. I propose to capture the rebel and turn him over to you in exchange for a modest ransom. His head is far more valuable to you and the young king than it is to me.”
The mandarin unrolled the scroll and glanced at it. With his left hand, he twirled a long strand of his whiskers and pulled it upward, giving the impression of a smile at the corner of his mouth. Staring down at the Chinese, he said, “Wang Zicheng of Wuchow, name your price—although I doubt that you can capture that wily fox.”
The man gave a grunt. “You don’t know the shrewdness of a casino owner. I may have possession of a gambling house, but I never gamble. I can deliver the goods in exchange for two hundred silver coins and two of the best stallions in your stable.”
TuyBn opened his mouth. But before he could utter a sound, Wang raised a finger. “Mandarin, you have no ivory chips to bargain with me. That is my final offer. When we meet again, have your money ready, for my son and I will bring your fox in a cage.”
Mandarin TuyBn’s first action was to order a handful of soldiers to take the condemned prisoners to Hue City, the capital of Cochin China. Under imperial law, the executions would take place there, for Vice-king Loan reserved the ultimate power—that of capital punishment—for his own precincts. Sending the missionaries to the vice-king would show the ruler that TuyBn was carrying out his duties as governor of Quinion despite the difficulties caused by the peasant unrest. It would also give him a chance to plead his case. Along with the captives, TuyBn sent his most trusted aide, his oldest son, to beg the king for reinforcements. Still, he knew that any help from the seat of government was likely to be too little, too late.
Resigned, he spent the next few days preparing for war. Inside his home, his concubines disappeared into their apartments, bundled their valuables, and made ready to flee. He had no time or means to plan a thorough counterattack against the rebels. In fact, the near impossibility of the task frightened him. What would happen to his lovely Quinion if Wang Zicheng were correct about the raid? What would happen to him and his family? He had no place to run.
It had not occurred to him to ask the casino owner about the bandits’ strength, how many men were in their army, what sort of weapons they had ready for battle, or what direction they would take to enter Quinion. TuyBn had been so startled by the news that by the time he could gather his thoughts, the two strangers had already departed. Now his only option was to wait.
Mandarin TuyBn ordered his men to place a series of ladders along the walls of his fortress to reach the parapet from the inside. The soldiers and townspeople worked together to transfer heaps of rocks from the ground to the battlements so they could be thrown down on the attackers. In groups of three or four, under the shade of banyan trees, the women whittled arrows from bamboo stalks. Some of the barbs were wrapped in rags and dipped in kerosene; others were coated in red arsenic and cobra venom.
Mandarin TuyBn walked up and down the great wall to look for signs of the enemy. Any time he spotted a cloud of dust in the distance, terror would seize him. But each time, the mirage proved to be only a caravan of passing merchants. Whenever a black crow screeched for its mate or a spider fell from a branch, he saw an omen warning him of misfortune, and the familiar, bitter taste of bile rose in his throat.
The Chinese man’s arrogance made TuyBn feel that the casino owner would not go back on his word. Surely Wang Zicheng and his son had concocted a plan to capture the leader of the bandits. He suspected that as part of the scheme, the government would be indebted to Wang for turning in the rebel NhCc and therefore would not pursue the purloined tax money. In addition, Wang and his family would benefit from assisting TuyBn, as such an act of loyalty would guarantee the continuance of their gambling establishment.
TuyBn desperately held on to these convictions, since this scenario meant that a war could be avoided. On the other hand, history had taught him that in the game of war, the Chinese were not to be trusted. No one could outwit them. Like it or not, he had to prepare for battle.
Walking back to his mansion, TuyBn mentally examined each aspect of his preparations one more time. In the front yard he lit large stalks of incense, burned paper money for the dead, and made offerings of rice and salt to the gods, entreating the sovereign lords of the terrestrial world to bless his land.
As he was immersed in his prayer, the barking of a dog startled him. A lad of fifteen was running barefoot through the street, waving his hands and holding what seemed like a clump of fur. He shouted, “Master, Master, the Chinese are here.”
Townspeople, concubines, and servants ran in every direction. Mandarin TuyBn leaped to his feet, dropping the incense to the ground. He grabbed the boy by the back of his neck. “What are you saying? Who is coming?”
“The Chinese,” the boy repeated, panting. “They are waiting outside the north entrance. They need your permission to enter the gate. And they said to give you this.” He uncoiled his fingers, and the mandarin saw that in his hand the young messenger was holding a bloody foxtail.
It was midday. The sun spilled through the side windows of the community hall and spread across the bleached wooden floor. Every time TuyBn held a meeting in this spacious hall, under its vaulted ceiling, he felt a sense of importance. His men stood nearby, weapons in hand. From the balconies, with their carved banisters and ornate spindles, the local citizens watched the spectacle below as though it were an opera. Their loud chattering, mixed with the noise of children crying, reverberated through the cavernous space.
Mandarin TuyBn ran a finger inside his collar in a vain attempt to release the heat trapped inside his official uniform—a long, blue silk tunic with detailed embroidery. With his other hand he produced a current of air around himself with a delicate folding fan, holding it at the pivoted base of the sandalwood frame but making sure that the sight of the phoenix embroidered on his tunic was in full display. This was the first time in many years he did not feel racked with illness, because his enemy was locked in a bamboo cage twenty paces from his upturned shoes. Safeguarding the crate were Wang Zicheng and ten of his men. Their weapons had been left at the gate.
At the first series of drumbeats, silence fell on everyone, including the smallest children. TuyBn used the fan like an extension of his fingers, pointing in the direction of the prisoner, whose head was bowed low and locked in a wooden ladder-like yoke. The barred enclosure was so small that he had to crouch on his palms and knees like a savage dog ready to attack. A heavy chain around his ankle anchored him to a large metal ball.