My heartbeat sped with the fear that he must have experienced. I heard cannons booming across water, saw towers on shore in flames. Kuan’s consciousness seemed to merge into mine, so that I lived his story-as he intended me to do.
“Our army fought valiantly, but it was no match against the British,” Kuan said. “They blockaded the river and seized Chinese merchant junks. As they stormed nearby coastal cities, they revived the opium trade. They furnished arms to Chinese smugglers, who fought their way past our army. Sentiment in the kingdom turned against those of us who had most zealously pursued the crusade against opium. We were blamed for the war. The emperor decided that the British could be pacified, and the war halted, if he punished us. That August, I was among various officials relieved of their duties and assigned to faraway posts. My dedication had brought me the worst disgrace.”
My perspective revolved further beyond my own moral foundation. I could not help but view Kuan as heroic and unjustly disgraced for trying to protect a kingdom from the ills that Branwell suffered.
“I did not leave Canton at once,” Kuan continued. “The war required the military expertise I’d gained at my previous post. I stayed until the next spring. During that time, the British captured our forts and occupied Hong Kong. Their ships roved the Canton delta, sinking war junks and destroying defenses, then mounted an assault on the waterfront. Thousands of citizens fled Canton. Thieves looted abandoned houses. The troops I commanded built batteries along the shore, mounted guns, and fired on the British… in vain. British troops disembarked in May 1841 and amassed outside the city wall.”
His mesmeric voice fostered in me visions of a city in chaotic peril. I saw the flames, smelled the smoke; I heard the screams of people fleeing the horde that besieged them.
“A general panic ensued,” Kuan said. “Soldiers deserted their posts and plundered the city. Riots broke out. The governor of Canton called a meeting of his officials. I advised that we continue fighting. I reasoned that although the British were likely to take Canton, they could not conquer all of China; they would weaken before they reached the interior. But other officials advised negotiating a truce.”
Kuan grimaced in contempt. “Their cowardice prevailed, and I, the lone dissenter, was ordered to leave for my new post. That evening, while the British clamored outside the city wall and the officials prepared to accept defeat, I hurried about town, settling my affairs. My son T’ing-nan and my personal retinue of ten men accompanied me. When we arrived home late at night…”
Kuan paused, and I perceived that powerful emotions were getting the best of his customary self-control. I sat alert, sensing that his story was approaching its climactic revelation. Rising, he said, “Come with me, Miss Bronte. I wish to show you something.”
He led me to the room next door. It was unfurnished except for a table upon which stood a miniature framed portrait, painted in Oriental style, of a pretty Chinese woman and two little girls, dressed in bright, exotic costume, their hair studded with ornaments. Candles flamed before the portrait. A brass vessel held sticks of smoking incense. At last I identified the source of the perfume in this house and in the Belgian chateau.
“These are my wife, Beautiful Jade, and my young daughters, Precious Jade and Pure Jade,” said Kuan. “That night I arrived home to find them brutally murdered.”
Reader, these were the murders I described earlier. I learned of them from Kuan, at this moment in my tale, and his spell and my imagination breathed life into his recital of the facts. Now I was to discover how the murders had set in motion the events I experienced.
“They lay slashed to death, awash in blood, in the wreckage of the bedchamber,” Kuan said in a tone of deliberate detachment as we contemplated the funeral altar. “While I was gone, the servants had deserted my estate, leaving my wife and daughters alone. Someone had entered the mansion and slaughtered them.”
The entirety of his motive for relating the events of his life to me became clear at last. Kuan wanted to engage my sympathy for his cause. A part of me understood that he was manipulating me; yet I couldn’t but pity a man who’d lost his family by violence.
“On the wall, written in their blood, was the insignia of a secret society whose members traded in opium,” Kuan said. “The insignia was their notice to me that they had murdered my family as revenge for my crusade against them.”
Alas, his portrayal of himself as a hero and martyr was having the desired effect upon me, even as I knew him to be a murderous blackguard himself!
“Had I been home,” said Kuan, “they would have killed me, too, and collected the price offered for my death. As I fell to my knees beside my wife and children-as I howled in grief-I felt rage leap like flames within me. My spirit demanded retribution. I wanted to punish the murderers for their crime, but how? I had no official standing in Canton; I couldn’t mount a search for the killers, nor order their execution.” The helplessness Kuan must have felt colored his tone. “And Canton had become a lawless place. What hope had I of justice?
“It was then that I broke the bonds of duty that I had honored all my life. I swore that I would pursue my family’s killers and deliver them to justice myself.” Kuan’s eyes glittered. “I removed the gown and cap that had signified my official rank. I gave my son into the care of a trusted friend. Then I armed myself, and the ten loyal men from my retinue, with muskets and swords. I prayed one last moment over my wife and daughters, and I promised them that I would avenge their deaths. Then my men and I went hunting for the killers. We tracked them to their opium dens and we shot them dead. I did not care that I had become an outlaw and murderer myself. All I cared for was to kill every last one of them.”
I pictured him and his henchmen bursting upon the surprised scoundrels, gunning them down amidst screams and blood. Though his remorseless violence horrified me, my spirit applauded him. I know what it is to hate someone with such venom, and I might have done similar harm to those who had wronged me, had I the power and not feared the consequences.
“During the next few days, we slew eighteen men,” Kuan said. “In that time, the Canton officials and the British negotiated a truce. It was agreed that China would pay six million pounds-an enormous sum-to the British. In return, the British would spare the city and withdraw their ships from the waterfront. Despite the blood on my hands, my need for vengeance remained unsatisfied. The deaths of eighteen miserable opium smugglers could not restore my wife and daughters to life. And China had suffered a terrible defeat.”
I thought that at last Kuan had explained why he’d left China. His womenfolk had been slain, his country humiliated; China harbored memories he must have longed to escape. I understood that Kuan, once a civilized, honorable man, had turned into a criminal because rage had twisted his mind. Yet still I didn’t know why he had chosen to come to Britain-or what he wanted with me. Before I could ask, Hitchman appeared.
“What do you want?” Kuan frowned in annoyance at Hitchman.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Hitchman said, “but I must speak to you. It cannot wait.”
The two of them went out to the corridor, where they exchanged low, urgent words. Then Kuan hurried down the stairs without bidding me farewell. Hitchman came to me.
“Kuan asked that you excuse his abrupt departure,” Hitchman said. “He’ll resume your conversation later. In the meantime, he wants you to remain in your room.”
As Hitchman escorted me there, not a word of explanation did he give; but clearly there was trouble. I would not learn until later what had happened-and later still, how its repercussions would ultimately put me in peril.
31
I languished in my room, wondering what had happened. Fog swept in from the sea, and a malaise enshrouded the house, which was as silent as a tomb until that evening, when I heard footsteps. I went to the door, and to my surprise it opened at my turn of the knob; Hitchman had forgotten to lock it. I crept to the stairway and spied Kuan and Nick in the hall below.
“Have you found any sign of my son?” Kuan asked.
Nick shook his head.
“Keep looking,” said Kuan.
They parted company and disappeared from sight. I realized that T’ing-nan must have gotten out of the house and run away. Everyone was apparently occupied with bringing him back. I felt pity for the boy, who had lost his mother and was now abroad in a strange land, and for his father, too, because Branwell had taught me the torment that ensues when a loved one goes missing. But T’ing-nan’s disappearance spelled opportunity for
