For another half hour he watched the big river, which was carrying away all kinds of branches and other detritus that had fallen into its churning waves.
Everything in nature was flux, he thought. And if the Yellow River was anything to go by, the great flux had no end.
At last, it seemed to him, it was time to go. He’d seen all he needed. Descending from the towpath, he took the track that would take him in a more westerly direction, towards his own home.
He walked slowly. There was no hurry. The plan was complete. Perfect.
And he had gone a quarter of a mile across the valley floor when, behind him, he heard the strangest roar.
Then Jiang Shi-Rong turned, looked back in terror, and began to run.
But the waters of the Yellow River were swifter and infinitely greater than he as they swept all before them.
—
The great flood of the Yellow River, when it broke its banks at Huayuankou and rushed across the broad valley, sweeping farms, villages, and towns before it, was worse than any tsunami from the sea because, being one of the greatest rivers on the earth, and flowing as it did above the surrounding land, it kept coming on. And on. And continued without ceasing.
It is estimated that nine hundred thousand people lost their lives.
The ancestral home of Shi-Rong’s family, being well above the valley, was not touched. Neither of course was the Shaolin Monastery high in the mountains. Nor Mr. Gu’s little hill farm.
But of Mr. Gu’s neighbor and pupil Shi-Rong, there was no sign at all.
February 1900
Dr. Cunningham looked at old Trader. He had two lady patients in their nineties; after them came John Trader of Drumlomond. He was the type, of course. Tall, athletic, no fat on him. They were the men who lasted longest, in his experience.
“I cannot answer for you if you undertake this journey,” he declared.
“You can’t answer for me if I don’t,” Trader replied cheerfully. “I’m nearly ninety.”
“Take your medicine and avoid stress. Can you do that?”
“I should think so. A long voyage. Good ship. I may get bored, but not stressed, I imagine. All I have to do then is take the train up to Peking. I’ll be staying with my daughter in the mission, which is safely inside the Inner City. Can’t see much stress there.”
“You’re determined to go?”
“I’d like to see Emily again before it’s too late. I haven’t met her youngest boy yet, either. It’s about ten years since she and her husband last came back.” He smiled. “Not sure I can wait much longer.”
“Well then, I suppose you’d better go.” Dr. Cunningham put away his stethoscope. “What’s going on in China, anyway? I read the papers, but I can’t make head nor tail of the place. Do you understand it?”
“I think so. They tried to modernize, but never got very far with it. So everybody’s been taking advantage—especially the Japanese. You know the Japanese smashed the Chinese navy, just five years ago. Now they’ve got control of the Korean peninsula as well. To add insult to injury, they also grabbed the island of Taiwan.”
“That’s Formosa, isn’t it?”
“Different name, same place. Right off the Chinese coast, between Shanghai and Hong Kong. Absolutely humiliating.”
“I can never make out if China’s a rich or a poor country.”
“Both, really. Agricultural of course. Not much industry yet. But wealth underground. I’ve heard there’s a young American prospector called Herbert Hoover who’s looking for anthracite in north China. Gold as well, I believe. So all kinds of possibilities in the future, you might say—when they wake up.”
“What about the palace coup I read about?”
“Part and parcel of this business—whether to modernize or not. After the Japanese humiliation, the young Chinese emperor, who’d finally got the old dowager Cixi to retire, announced a sweeping set of reforms. Tried to modernize his empire overnight. Bit naive, I’m afraid. The conservative establishment wasn’t having it. Next thing you know, Cixi’s back in control and the young emperor’s a prisoner in his own palace. Still is, I believe.” He paused. “Not that you ever really know what’s going on in the Forbidden City. It’s the most secretive place on earth.”
“The old woman’s been ruling through emperors who are boys or weak young men for about forty years, hasn’t she?”
“Pretty much.”
“One last question: Who are these people wearing red sashes and turbans who’ve started stirring up trouble? Boxers, they call them. Is it a secret society? Are they like the Taiping?”
“A sort of nationalist sect. Not the first. You know, get the foreigners and their religion out of China. That sort of thing. And they practice some kind of magical martial arts—that’s why our people call them Boxers. Makes them immune even to bullets, they claim.”
“Good luck with that,” said the doctor.
“Popular with the peasants, but only in a few northern provinces. They wear red shirts and turbans. That’s all I know.”
“Are you worried about your daughter?”
“I did go to the Foreign Office and have a talk with them. Our man in Peking—minister, as we call him—reports that everything’s quiet enough.”
“Do you believe it?”
“Have to see when I get there.”
Dr. Cunningham looked at his patient quizzically. “I have a feeling this may not be such a quiet holiday as you’re telling me.”
“Nonsense.”
“You want to persuade them to come back, don’t you? That’s what you’re really up to.”
“Not at all,” said Trader. “Just a little holiday in the sun.”
◦
It was a May morning in Beijing. Yesterday a wind from the Gobi Desert had swept in like a tsunami, carrying black dust this time, and Emily couldn’t get it out of her hair, which only added to her feeling of discomfort and unease.
Her father was coming. He
