________________________________
Some of the men around the table laughed. The stories had gone on for what felt like hours.
“We were scared for our lives,” Patridge said. “In 1842, I worked on a ship carrying opium along the coast of China. A monsoon struck, and my ship and another were wrecked on the island of Formosa. The crews consisted of 180 Bengalis and thirteen white men. The natives captured us and immediately beheaded the Bengalis. There I was with my hands tied be
hind my back watching all those heads hit the ground. I was terrified.
“The thirteen of us that remained alive felt we were doomed until the ship’s carpenter had a great idea. He said we should kowtow to the governor of Formosa by standing on our heads." He paused and looked around the table. "And we did."
“Gentlemen, it worked. This governor was so impressed that he spared our lives and kept us in prison instead. Eventually we gained our freedom. I’m sitting here today telling you about the time I came a chop away from the grave.” He put his hands around his neck, stretched it and crossed his eyes.
Robert had trouble believing the tale, so he allowed his mind to drift to other thoughts. He never had enjoyed these types of stories. If he had to put up with this to escape the isolation and stifling heat of Ningpo, he would. It was a small price to pay for people that spoke his language. On the other hand, if the story was true , he might be able to learn something. It wasn’t that important to listen though. Robert didn’t expect to be shipwrecked anytime soon.
Patridge’s house was on the western end of Zhoushan Island with the mainland about five miles away. It squatted on a hill close to a hundred feet above sea level. Robert wasn’t the only houseguest. The Maryann’s captain, a man named Roundtree, had come ashore too and was staying in the house with three of his officers.
At dinner that first night, Patridge, Captain Roundtree, his officers and Robert sat at a table on the veranda while concubines served food. The first course was a delicious soup made from lily flowers, black mushrooms and sea delicacies. Robert sipped from a glass of red wine and listened to the conversation instead of taking part. Sometimes his mind drifted from the conversation when he didn’t find it interesting.
From the veranda, Robert saw the track they had used to reach the house. It looked like a brown string winding its way through thick stands of trees and checkered green farmlands toward the top of the hill. When typhoons roared in from the Pacific, raced across the East China Sea and slammed into the island, the twenty miles of hills slowed the storm’s impact.
Ningpo was about fifty miles to the south. Shanghai was a bit farther to the north. If you sailed west into the bay, you eventually reached the city of Hangzhou. Robert recalled a conversation he and Guan-jiah had. It took place during the trek to the house that morning with the others from the Maryann.
“Guan-jiah,” Robert said, “before I came to China I read The Travels of Marco Polo. Do you know who he was?”
“No, Master,” Guan-jiah replied.
“He came to China from Europe more than six hundred years ago and served under Kublai Khan during the Yuan Dynasty. Polo wrote that Hangzhou was the finest and noblest city in the world.”
“Hangzhou was the capital of the Southern Sung Dynasty, Master,” Guan-jiah said. “I’ve heard it is beautiful. Sung philosophy says that we have the power in our minds to overcome our emotions.”
“Marco Polo believed it was God’s will that he came back from China so others in the West might know what he’d seen.” Robert turned to his servant, who was the last in line. “Do you believe in this Sung philosophy, Guan-jiah?”
“The Sung said that if you know yourself and others, you would be able to adjust to the most unfavorable circumstances and prevail over them.”
“That’s admirable, Guan-jiah. You never mentioned you were a scholar. If the Sung Dynasty was that wise, I want to see Hangzhou one day.”
“I am no scholar, Master, but I must believe in the Sung philosophy to survive. I have read and contemplated much literature. However, I am like a peasant and have never mastered calligraphy. It is a skill that has eluded me.”
“How old were you when you studied this philosophy?”
“I was eleven, Master, two years after I was sent to Peking.”
That meant Guan-jiah had been neutered at nine. How unfortunate. Robert didn’t want to offend the eunuch, but he was curious. “Why were you sent to Peking?” he asked.
“To work, Master. My family was starving. It was the only way I could help, but I failed.” He stared at his feet in shame.
“How can you say you failed?” Robert said. “After all, you are paid well compared to most Chinese peasants. Your family does not go hungry, and they have shelter.”
“But they suffered for many years,” Guan-jiah said, “and that is my burden. After I failed in Peking, I went into a Buddhist monastery. One of the older monks spoke English, and he became my teacher. When I was fourteen, I returned to Ningpo and went to work for foreign merchants. Now I work in the consulate for you.”
Roundtree’s voice intruded on Robert’s thoughts and brought his focus back to the dinner table. “I heard that you spelled your name differently with another ‘r’ in front of the ‘t’. If that’s true , why did you change it?”
“What?” Robert asked, thinking the question was directed at him. With his attention focused on the conversation, he realized that it had been directed at Patridge. No one noticed that he’d spoken.
“I never changed my name,” Patridge responded. “Why would I do that?”
“I’ve heard it said that a man named Partridge caused some mischief about 1841 back in London. He dropped that first ‘r’ so his name would become Patridge making it harder to be tracked down.”
Patridge shook his head with a look of feigned innocence. “Nothing happened to cause me to change my name. It’s always been Patridge.”
Robert wondered what this was about. Right then the main course arrived, and he was distracted. He was so hungry that he forgot what he’d been thinking. Dinner consisted mainly of a leg of boiled mutton, several roast pheasants, roasted goose and a juicy piece of bacon.
“Here’s another story,” Patridge said, pounding the table for emphasis and bursting out in laughter.
This was like the food Robert ate at home in Ireland. Until that moment, he hadn’t realized how much he had missed the taste of food like this. Saliva filled Robert’s mouth. He reached for the platter of meat. As he was spearing the meat with his fork, his eyes searched the table taking in the mashed potatoes and the bowl of brown gravy. His stomach grumbled in anticipation.
After Patridge regained his composure, he said, “We were halfway between Hong Kong and Shanghai becalmed in a small cove. Just a mile from us, but closer to the beach, were the pirates who’d been chasing us.”
“Are you talking about the Iona?” Robert asked.
“Or course,” Patridge said. His eyes opened wider. “You were there too.”
Robert vaguely remembered seeing him on board the schooner, but he had not seen him once during the pirate episode.
“Chinese pirates are devils,” Roundtree complained. “You’d think the blasted Imperial navy would do something about them.”
“If Sir John Bowring wasn’t handing out licenses to fly the British flag to every smuggler and pirate along the coast, maybe the Chinese navy might be able to do something about it,” Robert said.
A stunned silence settled around the table until one man cleared his throat. Robert squirmed in his seat. He wondered what he had said to cause this type of response. Maybe it was best to keep his mouth shut and just listen.
“It doesn’t matter what Sir John is doing,” Patridge said, breaking the uneasy silence. “We didn’t need the Chinese Imperial navy on the Iona. A little adventure adds flavor to life if it doesn’t hurt profits. Don’t you remember me telling the captain to lower the ship’s boats so we could row over and give those pirates a fight?”
“I must have been below deck when that happened,” Robert replied. He decided to say nothing more on the subject. He didn’t care much for braggarts. After all, Patridge wasn’t a bad sort. The meal was a feast, and Robert was stuffing himself. No need to embarrass his host.
“That blasted captain said the water was too choppy,” Patridge continued, “and when that calm ended, we set sail. Very disappointing. I was looking forward to a good fight.”
If Patridge was changing the facts to suit his storytelling, what else was he embellishing? Robert shrugged it off. If the man wanted to make himself sound like a lion, who was Robert to complain?
The warm but fresh air, the conversation, the bounty of good food and the lovely concubines made for a satisfying evening. Patridge treated his concubines like servants. Robert was confused. He wasn’t sure what the status of a concubine was yet. Maybe it was a combination of things besides keeping a bed warm at night.
After a while, Robert noticed that the same concubine served the same man. There were six men at the table and there were six concubines, one standing behind each man.
Patridge started another story about a merchant at a port in China. “This merchant was lonely, so he bought a Chinese woman for seventy-two yuan. The girl was warranted to be sound, virgin, and respectably connected. After sometime, the merchant heard her speak English and Bengali. It turned out that she’d been a common whore for the commonest sailors, and the merchant ended with syphilis!” Patridge burst out laughing.
All the men joined in except Robert. He didn’t see the humor. The merchant had been cheated, and syphilis wasn’t fun. Hart knew all about it. While in college, he came down with an illness the doctor identified as syphilis. He was first prescribed Guajacum and then mercury. They were administered to the infection in a paste, which Robert had to rub on.
“He paid too much,” Roundtree said, after the laughter died. “He should've had a virgin princess for that much. Since you can buy most girls for much less, it sounds like he was a fool.”
More like a victim, Robert thought, but anyone who trafficked in flesh deserved whatever he got. He sipped slowly on his second glass of wine. Everyone else was starting on a fourth or fifth.
The concubine serving Robert was called Willow, and she brought him plum pudding, mince pie and tarts. Robert wondered how he was going to eat it all. He decided to take it slow, one bite at a time. He was not going to pass up eating any of this food.
When Willow wasn’t getting food or drink, she stood close behind Robert, and he felt the heat from her body. She was petite with a small mouth and a set of leaf shaped eyes. Her nose was almost a blade it was so thin. Her long black hair was tied up in a bun on the back of her head. A wooden pin with bright colored hanging glass decorations held the bun together. When her head tilted this way or that, the glass tinkled like a wind chime. Her skin was the color of pure ivory, and she glided gracefully when she moved. She reminded Robert of a fragile porcelain statuette he’d seen in a museum.
___________________________
To learn more about China,
Share
Print
Save