Sandalwood Death

CHAPTER ELEVEN





Golden Pistols





1




In the early morning hours, high-ranking officers from the Tianjin branch of the Right Imperial Guard led a delegation that included a military band and a cavalry unit to the little pier on the northern bank of the Hai River to welcome the return of the Vice Minister of War and Judicial Commissioner of Zhili, Yuan Shikai, from Peking, where he had presented longevity gifts to the Empress Dowager Cixi upon Her resumption of the Regency.

Among the members of the delegation were the Deputy Chief of the Military Affairs General Staff, Xu Shichang, who would later serve as President of the Republic of China; Deputy Adjutant of the Office of Military Affairs and future President of the Republic of China, Feng Guozhang; Zhang Xun, future Changjiang Patrolling Inspector and so-called “Pigtail General,” who would later attempt to restore the abdicated Emperor Pu Yi; Duan Zhigui, Commander of the Second Infantry Battalion and future Chief of the Republic of China General Staff; Commander of the Third Artillery Battalion and future Premier of the Republic of China, Duan Qirui; Xu Bangjie, Commander of the Third Infantry Battalion and future General Director of the Republic of China Presidential Palace; Deputy Commander of the Third Infantry Battalion and future Premier of the Republic of China, Wang Shizhen . . . all relatively young, enterprising military officers whose ambitions were not, at the time, excessive. None could possibly have imagined that within a matter of decades, the fate of China would rest in the hands of this cadre of men.

Also part of the delegation was the most promising member of the Right Imperial Guard in terms of moral character and knowledge, the captain of Yuan Shikai’s mounted guard, Qian Xiongfei. Qian was among the first delegation of students sent to study in Japan, where he graduated from a military academy. He was tall and trim and had bushy eyebrows, big eyes, and white, even teeth. A man of enviable self-discipline, he neither smoked nor drank nor gambled nor whored around. Always vigilant and a wizard with a gun, he was highly prized by Yuan Shikai himself. He rode up that day on a snow-white stallion, the creases in his uniform as sharp as knives, his riding boots shined to a high gloss, a pair of gold-handled pistols holstered on his leather belt. A contingent of sixty warhorses fanned out behind him like a swallowtail, with elite young military guards in the saddles, each armed with German thirteen-shot repeater rifles. Extremely fit, they kept their eyes focused straight ahead, and though there was a bit of a scripted look about the detachment, they managed to inspire awe in anyone who laid eyes on them.

It was nearly noon, and there was still no sight of the steamboat carrying Excellency Yuan. No fishing boats were visible anywhere on the Hai River, whose broad vista was broken only by flocks of seagulls that occasionally dipped down just above the waves. Since it was late autumn, the trees were bare, all but the oaks and maples, on which a smattering of vivid red or golden yellow leaves remained, bringing a bit of color to both banks of the river, a bright spot in an otherwise bleak panorama. Gloomy patches of cloud cover hung above the river, over which damp winds blew in from the northeast, carrying the rank, salty smell of the Bohai Sea. The horses were getting restless, swishing their tails, kicking out their rear hooves, and snorting. Qian Xiongfei’s mount kept turning its head back to nip at its rider’s knee. When Qian stole a look at the senior officers around him, he saw how their faces had darkened as the cold, damp late autumn winds bored through their uniforms and chilled them to the bone. Drops of snivel hung from the tip of Xu Shichang’s nose; Zhang Xun was yawning, which made his eyes water; and Duan Qirui was rocking back and forth in the saddle, looking perilously close to toppling off his horse. The term “sorry sight” perfectly described the delegation. Qian, who held his fellow officials in contempt, was ashamed to be counted among them. He was no less weary than they, but he, at least, valued his responsibility to maintain the proper military bearing. The best way to pass the time in the midst of the boredom of waiting was to let his thoughts roam wherever they desired. To the observer, his gaze was focused on the wide river before him, but what played out before his eyes were episodes from his past.





2




Little Xizi, Little Xizi! That sound, so touchingly intimate, buzzed in his ears, near one moment and far the next, like a game of hide-and-seek. Youthful visions of playing tag with his older brother danced in front of his eyes. As they chased one another through the fields of their village, the image of his brother slowly expanded, growing taller and wider, while he hopped and jumped, grabbing at the shiny queue flying just out of reach. Even when he touched it with his finger, it nimbly flicked away, like a black dragon’s tail. Anxious and frustrated, he stomped his foot and burst into tears; his brother stopped and spun around. And in that brief moment, a youngster without a single whisker on his chin was transformed into a court official with an impressive beard. The next recollection that crowded into his head was of the quarrel he’d had with his brother before leaving for Japan. His brother had been opposed to his abandoning his studies for the Imperial Civil Service Examination. He had responded by saying that the examination produced an army of walking corpses, so angering his brother that he pounded his fist on the table, spilling most of the tea in their cups. “How dare you be so arrogant!” scolded his brother, his impressive beard quivering as anger undermined his stately bearing. But only for a moment, as that wrath was replaced by a desolate sense of self-mockery. “If that is so,” his brother had said, “then generations of sages and heroes have been nothing but walking corpses. That includes Wen Tianxiang, whom you revere, and even the great Tang poet Lu You. Zeng Guofan, Li Hongzhang, and Zhang Zhidong, officials in the present dynasty, are all walking corpses. Poor ignorant specimens like your brother are zombies that cannot even walk.” “That is not what I meant, Elder Brother.” “Then what did you mean?” “I meant that if China is going to move forward, the Imperial Civil Service Examination must be discarded and replaced by modern schools, and the ossified eight-part essay must give way to forms of scientific education. Fresh water must flow into this filthy, stagnant lake. China has to change, or she will surely perish. And the tactics required to effect the needed changes must be borrowed from the barbarians. I have made up my mind to go, so do not try to stop me, Elder Brother.” His brother could only sigh. “A man’s aspirations are unique to him, and no amount of coercion can change that. But I, your ignorant Elder Brother, believe that only by being tempered in the examination hall can one lay claim to dignity and prestige. All others are imposters who may achieve high office, but will never earn the respect of others.” “Brother,” he had replied, “troubled times demand a martial spirit—a civil ethos is reserved for days of peace and tranquility. Our family has had the good fortune of boasting one metropolitan scholar: you. We do not need more. So let me go take up studies in the martial realm.” His brother sighed again. “Metropolitan Scholar,” he said, “an empty label and nothing more. You carry a bundle of clothes to work in an unimportant yamen with little chance to benefit monetarily and are reduced to eating half a duck’s egg mixed into plain rice . . .” “If that is so, then why does my own brother want me to follow the same dead-end path?” With a dry laugh, his brother said, “The deep-rooted notion of a walking corpse . . .”

The winds were getting stronger; the river was beset by gray waves. He was reminded of his return trip on the Pusan Maru and thought back to Kang Youwei’s letter of introduction to gain him an audience with Yuan Shikai . . .





3




The town of Small Station in autumn; golden tassels on rice paddies as far as the eye could see gave off an intoxicating fragrance. Before his audience with Excellency Yuan in Shanxi, he had already quietly surveyed the area around Small Station for two days, secretly taking note of everything with the eye of a trained observer. He noted, for instance, that the soldiers of the New Army who took the parade ground every day carried themselves with military bearing, were armed with modern weapons, marched with precision, and made a fine impression, everything that the corrupt, inept old army was not. To know what a general is like, one need only look at his troops, and he held Excellency Yuan in the highest regard before he’d even met him.

Yuan’s official quarters, which were only a couple of arrow shots from camp, were protected by four swarthy guards the size of small pagodas who stood at the arched gateway. They wore leather boots, leggings, and leather cartridge belts, and carried German breech-loading rifles whose barrels were the blue color of swallows’ wings. He handed Kang Youwei’s introduction letter to the gatekeeper, who took it inside.

It was mealtime for Excellency Yuan, who was waited on by two beautiful attendants.

“I humbly offer my respects to Your Excellency!” He did not kneel and did not bow with his hands folded in front; instead, he stood straight and snapped off a Japanese-style salute.

He saw Yuan’s face undergo a subtle change, from a look of displeasure to a cold, sweeping examination with his eyes, and finally to an expression of admiration. With the briefest of nods, Excellency Yuan said, “A chair.”

He knew immediately that he had made a good first impression and that his plan had worked perfectly.

One of the attendants struggled to bring over a chair that was obviously too heavy for her. With the sound of her girlish panting in his ears and the smell of orchids emanating from her neck in his nostrils, he held his rigid stance and said, “I dare not sit in Your Excellency’s presence.”

“Stand, then,” Yuan said.

He studied His Excellency’s square face: big eyes, bushy eyebrows, wide mouth, and large ears, the very definition of eminence. Yuan, who had not shed the sounds of his rural home—thick and mellow, like aged spirits—went back to his meal, seemingly having forgotten his visitor, who stood there, rigid, unmoving as a poplar. His Excellency was in his nightgown and slippers; his queue hung loose. Breakfast that morning consisted of braised pig’s feet, a roast duck, a bowl of stewed lamb, a plate of braised mandarin fish, hardboiled eggs, and a basket of fluffy white steamed buns. Yuan enjoyed a healthy appetite and a love of food. He ate with rapt attention, as if he were alone. One of the attendants was responsible for peeling the eggs, the other for deboning the fish. He ate four eggs, gnawed on the feet of two pigs, finished off all the crispy skin of the duck, ate a dozen slices of lamb and half a fish, plus two steamed buns, washing it all down with three cups of wine. His meal finished, he rinsed his mouth with tea and wiped his hands on a napkin. Then he leaned back in his chair, belched, and shut his eyes while picking his teeth, as if he were alone in the room.

Knowing that all great men have their peculiarities, including the unique ways in which they observe and appraise talent, Qian Xiongfei assumed that the rude demonstration was how this one chose to evaluate his visitor. By then he had been standing at attention for more than an hour, but his legs remained steady, his eyes and ears clear and unaffected by the wait. By maintaining his military bearing, he had demonstrated that he was a model of military deportment and was exceptionally fit.

Excellency Yuan sat with his eyes closed, with one attractive attendant massaging his legs, the other rubbing his back. As loud snores rose from his throat, the attendants stole a glance at Qian Xiongfei and rewarded him with friendly smiles. Finally the snores stopped and His Excellency opened his eyes, fixing Qian with a penetrating stare that revealed no sign of having just awakened from a nap.

“Kang Youwei says you have acquired considerable learning and that your military skills are second to none,” he said abruptly. “Is that true?”

“Excellency Kang’s praise embarrasses and unnerves me.”

“I do not care if you have acquired real learning or worthless pedantry. I want to know what you studied in Japan.”

“The infantry drill manual, marksmanship, field logistics, tactics, armaments, fortifications, topography . . .”

“Can you shoot?” Yuan Shikai cut him off as he sat up in his chair.

“I am an expert in all infantry weapons, especially small arms, and with both hands. I may not be able to hit a tree at a hundred paces, but at fifty I never miss my target.”

“Anyone who boasts to me is in for a rude awakening,” Yuan Shikai said in a chilling voice. “I will not tolerate a man who overstates his abilities!”

“I will be happy to give Your Excellency a demonstration.”

“Excellent!” Yuan said with a hearty clap of his hands. “We have an adage in my hometown: ‘You can tell a mule from a horse by taking it out for a ride.’ Enter!” A young guard ran in to do Yuan’s bidding. “Prepare pistols, ammunition, and some targets.”

A rattan chair and a tea table were set up under a parasol on the firing range. Yuan removed a pair of pistols with gold-inlaid handles from an exquisite satin-covered box.

“These were given to me by a German friend,” Yuan said. “They have never been fired.”

“Please take the first shot, Your Excellency.”

The guard loaded his pistols and handed them to Yuan, who said with a smile:

“I’ve heard people say that for a true soldier, his weapon is his woman, and he will not permit another man to touch it. Do you believe that?”

“As Your Excellency says, many soldiers treat their weapons as if they were their women.” But then, with no apprehension, he added, “But I am of the opinion that anyone who treats his weapon as his woman scorns and considers his weapon to be a slave. I believe that a true soldier ought to treat his weapon as his mother.”

“Treating one’s weapon as his woman is absurd enough; treating it as one’s mother is preposterous,” Yuan said in a voice dripping with mockery. “You say that a soldier who treats his weapon as his woman scorns his weapon. Don’t you think that treating it as your mother is scornful of her? You can change weapons any time you want. How about your mother? A weapon is used to kill. How about your mother? Or better put, can your mother aid you in killing someone?” Under this withering interrogation, cracks formed in the foundation of his composure.

“Once you young officers receive a bit of Japanese or Western education, you develop an exaggerated sense of your abilities or worth, and when you open your mouths, all that comes out is wild talk and nonsense.” Yuan nonchalantly fired a round into the ground in front of them; the smell of gunpowder suffused the air around them. Then he raised the other pistol and fired into the air, sending a bullet whistling into the clouds. He lowered the gold-handled pistol and said, with a cold edge to his voice, “The truth is, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”

He stood, head bowed, and responded, “I gratefully accept Your Excellency’s instruction and will alter my viewpoint. As you say, sir, a weapon is just a weapon. It is not one’s woman, and it is assuredly not one’s mother.”

“There is no need for you to climb high using my pole. While I do not agree with your comparison of a weapon to a mother, there is something to be said for comparing it to a woman. Here is a woman, a gift from me.” Yuan Shikai tossed him one of the pistols, which he grabbed as if catching a live parrot. Yuan Shikai tossed him the second pistol. “Another woman for you. That makes two sisters.” This one, too, he grabbed as if catching another parrot. And now, with the gold-handled pistols in his hands, it seemed as if all his veins and arteries had expanded. It had pained him to see Yuan Shikai fire those two shots so offhandedly; to him that was like schoolgirls being manhandled by a coarse, boorish man. But there was nothing he could do about that. He gripped the pistols, feeling them tremble in his hands and hearing them moan softly. Even stronger was the feeling that they had immediately given themselves to him. Deep down, he had already abandoned his shocking metaphor of a weapon as one’s mother, so why not treat them as beautiful women? The end result of the debate over weapon metaphors was a realization that Yuan Shikai was not only a military genius, but a man of considerable leaning.

“Show me what you can do,” Yuan Shikai said.

After blowing on the mouths of both barrels, he tested their heft for a few seconds. They sparkled in the sunlight, as fine a pair of pistols as he had ever seen. He took a couple of steps forward and, seemingly without taking careful aim, fired a total of six shots from the two weapons in less than thirty seconds. The guard ran up to the target and brought it back for Yuan’s inspection. Six bullets had hit the bull’s-eye in the shape of a peach blossom. Applause broke out from the men around Yuan Shikai.

“Nice shooting!” His Excellency said approvingly, a genuine smile on his face for the first time during the audience. “Now, what would you like?”

“I’d like to own these,” he replied unflinchingly.

Taken by surprise, Yuan Shikai stared at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter.

“Go ahead,” he said. “You can be their husband!”





4




As he recalled those moments, he reached down and stroked the handles of the two pistols on his belt. They had been chilled by gusts of cold wind. “Don’t be frightened, my friends,” he said encouragingly as he warmed them with his hand. Then he pleaded: “Help me, my friends. When I have done what I came to do, I will be shot dead, but the tale of the gold-handled pistols will live on for generations.” They were, he could feel, beginning to warm up. “Yes,” he said to his pistols, “we must be patient as we await the man’s return. A year from today will be the first anniversary.” The mounted contingent behind him was getting increasingly restless—they were freezing cold and hungry, horses and riders. With cool detachment, he surveyed the two ranks of senior officers. They presented an amazingly ugly sight, all seemingly on the verge of falling off their horses, which nervously nipped at one another. There was no calming the mounts behind him, with one agitated wave coming hard upon the other. Heaven is on my side, he was thinking. Weariness has claimed everyone here, dulling their senses. I could not ask for a better time to act.

At last he, and only he, heard the faint toot of a steamship upriver. Instinctively, as his nerves grew taut, he tightened his grip on the handles of his pistols, but only for a brief moment. “Excellency Yuan has returned!” he called out in feigned excitement to the troops behind him and the ranking officers lined up on either side. Bestirred by the shout, the officers blew their noses or dried their weepy eyes or cleared their throats, each man eager to greet Excellency Yuan in a manner befitting his station.

The undersized glossy black steamship appeared around the bend in the river, puffing black clouds from its smokestack, each accompanying breath louder than the one before, until they were thudding against people’s eardrums. The ship’s bow cleaved through the water, arcing whitecaps to each side, while a wake sent ripples from the stern all the way to the riverbank. “Mounted troops,” he commanded, “double file!” With trained precision, the soldiers spurred their mounts into two files, spaced at roughly ten paces, all facing the river. The soldiers sat perfectly straight in their saddles, rifles off their shoulders and held at present arms, muzzles pointing skyward.

The military band struck up a tune of welcome.

The ship slowed down and edged sideways up to the wharf.

With his hands on the grips, he felt the pistols quake, like trapped fledglings—no, like a pair of women. Don’t be afraid, my friends, you mustn’t be afraid.

When the ship nestled up to the pier, it released a long whistle as sailors at the bow and the stern tossed over mooring lines, which were secured to bollards. At that moment, the ship’s engine shut down, and a party of subordinates emerged from the cabin to form lines on both sides of the hatch, from which Excellency Yuan’s nicely rounded head peeked out.

Again the pistols began to quake in his hands.





5




A couple of weeks earlier, when news of the execution of the Six Gentlemen in Peking had reached the small camp, he was in his barracks room oiling the gold-handled pistols. His orderly rushed in and reported:

“Sir, Excellency Yuan is on his way to see you!”

He hastened to put his weapons away, but Yuan Shikai walked in before he could manage. He jumped to his feet, holding out his oily hands. His heart raced as he saw the four hulking guards walk in behind His Excellency, their hands resting on the grips of their side arms. The ferocious looks in their eyes were a sign that they would not hesitate to use them. Despite his status as Commander of the Mounted Guard Detachment, he had no authority over Yuan’s four personal bodyguards, who were all from the commander’s hometown. He snapped to attention.

“Your humble servant did not know Your Excellency was coming,” he reported. “I beg forgiveness for my unpardonable slight!”

Yuan Shikai glanced at the weapons parts scattered on the table and said in a jocular tone:

“What are you’re doing, Detachment Commander Qian?”

“Your humble servant is cleaning his weapons.”

“I think not,” Yuan Shikai said with a barely concealed snicker. “You should have said that you are bathing your women.”

Reminded of his comment regarding weapons and women, he smiled awkwardly.

“What can you tell me about your association with Tan Sitong?”

“Your humble servant met him once at Kang Youwei’s home.”

“Only once?”

“Your humble servant would not dare lie to Your Excellency.”

“What is your opinion of the man?”

“Your Excellency, your humble servant believes,” he said with conviction, “that Tan Sitong is a courageous and upright man. If he were your friend, he’d tell you when you were wrong, but he could also be your mortal enemy.”

“Just what does that mean?”

“Tan Sitong is a dragon among men. He would unhesitatingly die for a friend, and would not be a secret enemy. To kill him would ensure an envious reputation; to die at his hands would be a worthy death.”

“I appreciate your candor,” Yuan Shikai said with a sigh. “Too bad Tan Sitong was not someone I could use. Are you aware that he was beheaded in the capital’s marketplace?”

“Your humble servant knows that.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“It breaks my heart.”

“Bring them in.” With a wave of his hand, two of Yuan’s attendants carried in a large black lacquer food hamper with gold-inlaid borders. “I’ve had them prepare two separate meals for you,” Yuan said. “The choice is yours.”

The attendants opened the large hamper, in which were two smaller ones. They laid them out on the table.

“Go ahead,” Yuan said with a grin.

He opened the first box, which held a red floral porcelain bowl filled with six large braised meatballs.

He opened the second box, which held only a single bone with a tiny bit of meat.

He looked up at Yuan, who was smiling at him.

He looked down and thought for a moment before reaching in and picking up the bone.

Yuan Shikai nodded appreciatively as he walked up and patted him on the shoulder.

“Smart, very smart. The Empress Dowager Herself presented this bone to me. There is little meat left on it, but what there is has a wonderful flavor. Try it.”





6




With fires of rage blazing in his heart, he gripped the pistols with trembling hands and watched as Yuan Shikai negotiated the shaky gangplank with the help of his bodyguards. Strains of the welcome melody floated in the air as the senior officers fell to their knees to greet the great man. He, on the other hand, remained seated on his horse. Yuan Shikai acknowledged the greeting with a mere wave of his hand. An easy, magnanimous smile adorned his ample face as he swept the prostrated welcoming delegation with his eyes, resting in the end on the sole mounted figure. At that moment it was abundantly clear that Yuan Shikai knew, and that was part of his plan. He wanted Yuan Shikai to know who it was who killed him. He nudged his horse forward and drew one of his pistols; it took only a second for the horse’s muzzle to bump up against Yuan’s chest.

“Excellency Yuan,” he shouted, “this is to avenge the deaths of the Six Gentlemen!”

He took aim with his right hand and pulled the trigger, expecting to hear an explosion, smell gunpowder, and see the man’s head shatter, just as it had so many times in his mind’s eye. But not this time.

He drew the second pistol with his left hand, aimed, and pulled the trigger, once again expecting to hear an explosion, smell gunpowder, and see the man’s head shatter, just as it had so many times in his mind’s eye. But not this time, either.

Members of the official delegation looked on in amazement. If it had been any other than his gold-handled pistols, he would have had ample time to put bullets into every one of those future presidents and premiers, necessitating a complete rewriting of China’s recent history. But at that critical moment, his gold-handled pistols had betrayed him. Raising them to his eyes for a quick examination, he angrily flung them into the river.

“You whores!” he shouted.

Yuan Shikai’s bodyguards stormed up and dragged him down from his horse. The prostrated officers clambered to their feet, ran up, and began clawing and tearing at his body.

Yuan Shikai, unfazed, merely walked up, lightly kicked him in his face, which the guards had pressed down into the dirt, and said:

“What a shame, a true shame!”

“Excellency Yuan,” he said in an anguished voice, “you were right, a weapon is not one’s mother.”

With a smile, Yuan replied:

“Nor is it a woman.”