My Splendid Concubine Read online

  My Splendid Concubine

  3rd edition

  - a novel -

  Lloyd Lofthouse

  PREFACE

  Robert Hart (1835-1911), the ‘Godfather of China’s modernism’, was the Inspector General of China’s Customs Service. He was also the architect behind China’s railroads, postal network, telegraph systems and schools. No Westerner, including Marco Polo, has ever achieved Hart’s status and level of power in China.

  How did this young Englishman achieve success in an alien empire?

  What would become an academic and then personal treasure hunt started with Robert Hart’s journals written over his fifty-four years in China, some of which had been published by the Council on East Asian Studies at Harvard.

  However, a few of these diaries covering a critical period of Robert’s early years in China were missing since Hart burned them shortly before his death. Enough information survived to reveal that he had an affair for about a decade with a Chinese concubine named Ayaou, who bore him three children.

  My wife, who at the time was researching and writing her next novel, said there was an underground archive in Shanghai where old books, manuscripts and documents of all sorts had been stored for decades since the Cultural Revolution.

  The problem was that the public wasn’t allowed access. We went to China believing that if we kept trying we might be able to ‘pry’ the door open, and eventually a favor was granted.

  At six one morning, the gatekeeper led us to a Russian military style brown building that looked as if it were in the middle of being renovated.

  Cautiously we went down a crumbling concrete stairway into the underground and found what had once been a bomb shelter during the Cultural Revolution. A series of long damp tunnels led to more rooms.

  The pungent odor of insecticide choked us the moment we passed through the vault-like door at the bottom.

  Signs everywhere warned us: “Xian-ren-muo-ru”—”No Visitors—Officials Only.”

  Inside were makeshift shelves crowded with dust covered chests. Although searching for records that dealt with the topic of my wife’s book, we also searched for Imperial records that detailed Robert Hart’s time in China. We wanted information on his early years while still an interpreter for the British Consulate in Ningpo—his years with Ayaou.

  We weren’t allowed to take anything out, so we returned each morning and spent days in the claustrophobic, chemical laden, damp and dim archive that felt more like a tomb.

  In time, we discovered a stack of boxes sealed with white banner shaped paper stamped with red ink that said Red Guard Headquarters. These boxes were filled with affidavits about the ‘British Imperialist Robert Hart’s intimate corrupted life’ gathered from the provinces and cities including Canton, Zhejing and Ningpo.

  The Red Guards had put Robert Hart on trial more than fifty years after his death to prove that what he had done for China was evil. People who knew of the Inspector General were ‘ordered’ to confess whatever stories or rumors had been passed to them.

  The results were written on crumbling, aging documents in these boxes. What we discovered was a story that speaks to the heart. To do it justice it was decided to use a fictional narrative format and write a historical novel that would blend psychology, sociology, politics and art with the dynamic process of history and weave it into one seamless tapestry while attempting to stay as true as possible to the events of the time.

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  1854

  A repulsive odor assaulted Robert Hart’s sense of smell before the Erin sailed into sight of the Chinese city. From the stench, it was obvious that raw sewage ran from Ningpo into the Yung River staining the water dark-brown.

  It was more than he could stand. His trip to China from Ireland had not been the adventure he had imagined.

  A month earlier, his ship had reached Hong Kong on July 25, where he had witnessed an American mercenary using dead infants for target practice. It didn’t help that the infants were floating in Victoria Harbor.

  Then there was Chen, the British consulate’s ten-year-old Chinese messenger boy in Victoria City who tried to sell him a woman.

  “Do all foreigners have different colored hair?” Chen had asked. “Yours look like wet sand. I seen red and yellow too. Does it come in green and blue? Look at my hair.” The boy ran a hand through his thick dark hair. When he took his hand away, the hair fell back into place. It looked as if someone had put a bowl on his head to cut it.

  Chen, a thin lad about four feet tall, was Robert Hart’s first Mandarin teacher. He spoke enough English to correct Robert when his Chinese pronunciations were off.

  His first weeks in China were spent on Hong Kong Island at the consulate in Victoria City practicing simple Chinese with this boy. The desk Robert used was by a window that revealed Victoria Harbor, and Chen was usually there when he arrived.

  In prior conversations, Chen had asked questions about Ireland. This time he was attempting to earn a bit more than the consulate paid. “I know woman who love see your hair,” Chen said. “Would you like meet her? She singsong girl and better than prostitute.”

  When he did not respond, Chen said, “If you want more than evening with prostitute, I arrange time with suitable singsong girl for lower price than decent girl from peasant family. You buy singsong girl as young as thirteen for mere two hundred yuan and make her your concubine. When you return to England, I sell her someone else. I not charge much and she keep you warm in winter. She also save money by not letting merchants cheat you as they do foreign devils.”

  The price Chen quoted was low. Two hundred yuan was about thirty-three pounds. It shocked Robert that a woman could be bought in China as if she were a piece of furniture.

  It bothered him more that he found the idea tempting. “How much would it cost to buy a respectable village girl?” he asked, disgusted with his own curiosity.

  Robert had not counted on the Chinese culture seducing him so soon after his arrival. His mind wasn’t ready. He had been raised to respect women as equals—not property. He resolved to attend church services twice that Sabbath to atone for being tempted.

  “Mr. Hart.” A bold voice called.

  Robert turned and saw the Governor of Hong Kong, Sir John Bowring, standing in the doorway. His appearance was striking. He had a wide forehead with a receding hairline. What gray hair he had was thick and curly. He wore small wire framed glasses, and his features were rugged as if they had been chiseled from weathered granite. Sir Bowring was also Her British Majesty’s Minister to China and was soon to be on his way to Peking to negotiate with the Imperial government.

  When Chen saw the governor, he bolted from the room.

  Sir Bowring may have heard the conversation, so Robert again regretted his question about the price of a village girl. His face burned with embarrassment. The governor would think him a libertine. What a horrible first impression.

  “Don’t let the boy shock you,” Sir John said. “You are no longer in England. I can see you are upset.”

  “Not as much as I was when my ship reached Hong Kong,” Robert said, wanting to change the subject.

  The governor said, “Are you talking about the smell of China?”

  “No. There was this American shooting at targets in the water. I do not recall the man’s name. I heard he was a mercenary on his way to Shanghai. When I looked closer, I saw he was shooting at little bodies.”

  “Did he have long, black hair?” the governor asked.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “It sounds as if you met Frederick Townsend Ward. He’s looking for employment in China to make a name for himself and a fortune.” The governor crossed the room to the window
and looked out at the harbor. “Look at the shipping,” he said. “There are opportunities to be had in China.”

  “What I saw was horrible,” Robert said, as he joined the governor at the window. “I almost lost my supper. He was shooting at three bloated infants.”

  “They were girls,” the governor said. He turned from the view to face Robert. “The peasants living along the Hsi River throw them into the water to get rid of them soon after they’re born. Girls are considered a burden in China. It’s a common practice. Those who live in poverty don’t have much to go around, and feeding a female child means less food for the rest of the family. It might help to know that the infants were dead before Ward shot them.”

  “How can anyone civilized do such things?”

  “The Chinese don’t see it that way,” the governor said. “Just because it is shocking, don’t turn away from such lessons in life.”

  He placed a hand on Robert’s shoulder. His voice softened. “Study everything around you. Go out and walk in the streets and read the shop signs. Bend over the bookstalls and read the titles. Listen to the talk of the people. If you acquire these habits, you’ll not only learn something new every time you leave your door, but you’ll always carry with you an antidote for boredom.”

  “I didn’t expect to see dead infants as if they were drift wood.”

  “Nevertheless,” the governor said, “take everything that happens and learn from it. In the end, you will be a better, stronger person. Don’t shy away from understanding such things even if you disagree with them.”

  The stench of Ningpo brought him back to the present. It had been weeks since his conversation with Sir John Bowring in Hong Kong. However, that conversation had reminded him of the dead infants. He hoped he wouldn’t see any floating in the Yung River.

  When the medieval walls of Ningpo came into sight, Robert saw a large fleet of Chinese junks. The dense forest of masts hid most of the city, but a large pagoda in the center towered above everything.

  “How can they stand it?” Robert said, trying not to breathe through his nose.

  “That’s China,” Patridge replied. “But to be fair, London and most large European cities aren’t much different. You must be from the countryside.”

  “Ireland, not far from Belfast.” What Robert didn’t share with Patridge was that he’d left like a runaway child escaping his sins, which he’d hoped to forget but had discovered were like sticky cobwebs trapped inside his head.

  Originally, he intended to stay in college for a master’s degree then follow his father’s example to become a Wesleyan pastor.

  That dream ended because Robert drank too much while at college and slept with too many women.

  When his father discovered his transgressions, Robert felt he had no choice but to leave and discover a means of redemption.

  Besides, the eighteen-hour days spent at college studying had worn him down to the point that he saw authors creeping through the keyhole.

  “I thought I detected Irish in your accent,” Patridge said.

  The two men were standing on deck by the rail. The merchant was six-foot tall and had the shape of an upside-down pear with thin legs. Robert was shorter by several inches.

  He had shared a cabin with Patridge, who was the principal agent of the English merchant Jardine, Matheson & Company, the most successful opium merchant in China.

  Since Patridge had done most of the talking during the short voyage south from Shanghai, the conversation had been one sided and Robert had learned more of the merchant’s life than he wanted to know.

  “Compared to the openness of Shanghai, the older cities like Ningpo are worse,” Patridge said, “They’re rat warrens with narrow twisted streets going everywhere without apparent purpose.”

  Where Patridge saw rat warrens, Robert saw exotic beauty.

  Questions lined up inside his head. Before he had a chance to ask, Patridge said, “Look over there.” He was pointing at a flagstaff flying the British ensign. “That’s our consulate with the blue tile roof.”

  His hand swiveled to point out an American flag farther up river. “And over there is the American consulate.”

  Then he pointed at a bend in the river. “That’s the Portuguese where you see their flag.”

  Robert searched to see the places Patridge pointed out. The Erin soon reached the receiving ship-alongside of which she found her berth. There were no docks. All the ships were anchored in the river.

  Before parting, Captain Patridge offered an invitation. “If you can’t get used to the city, you’re welcome to join me in July at the house I built on Zhoushan Island. I guarantee that with the arrival of the summer heat, the humidity, the sewage, the flies and the mosquitoes, you will find Ningpo unbearable. On the other hand, the sea breeze makes my summer home a refuge from refuse.” He laughed—an obnoxious sound that grated on Robert’s nerves. He was tired of hearing that laugh.

  Robert glanced toward the city’s ancient wall and wondered what it was like inside. “I appreciate the invitation,” he replied, and hurried to climb down into a sampan summoned to take him ashore.

  He glanced up at Patridge. “How do I find this Zhoushan Island if I decide to accept your offer?” Robert was being polite. He had no desire to spend a summer listening to Patridge’s constant prattle.

  “I can tell by the expression on your face that you aren’t interested, but I’ll bet you’ll come.” Patridge was smiling. “Just wait until the boredom sets in. When you change your mind, Payne Hollister will show you the way.”

  “Payne Hollister?” Robert asked.

  A disgusted look flashed in the merchant’s eyes then vanished. “I’m not surprised they didn’t tell you who he was back in Hong Kong or Shanghai,” Patridge said. “That’s an example of the dammed government bureaucracy for you. They post a man and don’t tell him anything about where he is going. Hollister is the British consul here. We shared a house once. He’s cooperative. A good man.”

  Robert wondered what he meant by that.

  Patridge shaded his eyes against the glare of the sun and leaned over the rail. “See, he’s waiting.” He pointed.

  Robert turned and saw a man wearing white trousers and a snuff colored coat standing near the water’s edge.

  The British Consulate was known to the Chinese as the Yin Kwei Yamen. Yamen meant a place where a department of a government did business. As Robert was rowed ashore, he felt excitement foaming to the surface. Before reaching land, he was shocked at the sight of a woman rinsing rice in the water that carried sewage from the city.

  The sampan ran up on the riverbank into the muck. The Chinese man jumped out and with an effort pulled the sampan closer to dry soil. Since Robert did not want to get his shoes wet, he added a tip to the agreed fare. The Chinese man handed back the extra money and left.

  The man in the snuff colored coat walked up to him. “You must be Hart,” he said, and offered a hand to shake. “I’m Payne Hollister, the British consul here.” His hair was a dark sandy color mixed with a touch of gray, and he had blue eyes.

  “How did you guess it was me?” Robert asked.

  Hollister pointed toward the British Consulate as if he had not heard the question. “This way,” he said, and started walking with sharp, crisp steps.

  “After I sailed from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the Iona,” Robert said, “we were chased by a pirate junk, a Cantonese Comanting with an eye painted on the bow.”

  He couldn’t help himself. The words poured out as if they were lonely. Patridge hadn’t been interested, and Robert wanted to share his ordeals with someone.

  “That Cantonese pirate almost caught us,” he said. “However, we gave the pirates the slip. Then we spent two weeks struggling against the monsoon and ran out of food. If the captain hadn’t gone ashore and bought some peanuts and water buffalo meat, we might have starved.”

  Hollister stopped and closed one eye while studying Robert with the open one. “Every time a ship arrives,” H
ollister said, “I come to see. I’ve been working the consulate alone for more than a month since my last assistant quit.”

  Robert wanted to know why the man he was replacing had quit but felt it wasn’t right to pry. Instead, he pointed toward the pagoda inside the city walls. “That looks interesting,” he said.

  “I’ll show you around tomorrow, and I’ll give you tips on how to survive here. One thing that helps is the Christian missionaries and a handful of merchants. If we didn’t depend on one another for companionship, one could easily go crazy living among these heathens. You’re invited to join a gathering of the missionaries and their families this Friday if you’re so inclined.”

  “Of course,” Robert said. “Is there a Wesleyan minister among them? If so, I want to attend his services.”

  “There are Protestants and such,” Hollister replied, “but I don’t know exactly what religions are here. I do not attend services. I’ve got better things to do. You can discover more from the ministers on Friday when we cross to the other side of the river where most of them live.”

  Hollister had some boys carry Robert’s luggage to the walled British compound. Once inside, Hollister said, “This is your room. Take the rest of the morning off and settle in.”

  It was a small room with a fireplace opposite the bed. After Hollister left, Robert opened his trunk. There was a noise. He looked up to see two Chinese women peering through the room’s one window, which faced an alley.

  They were lovely. He wanted to turn away. He didn’t think it right of him to ogle them but couldn’t help himself. He’d been without a woman far too long but was determined to stay chaste this time.

  They laughed and vanished. Again, Robert was reminded of what he’d learned from the messenger boy in Hong Kong, so he stepped to the window and closed the shutters to avoid other tempting sights that might come along.

  It took only a short time for Robert to unpack and put his personal things away. Besides his clothing and a few other items, there were old letters from family and close friends at home in Portadown, in the county of Armagh.