The Silk Weaver's Daughter (17 page)

Chapter 24

Wu-li Mountain, July 1687

T
he journey was every bit as tough and treacherous as Li Jang had warned. After miles of travelling up-river, a gruelling journey by polebarge, they began the climb to the altitude where the tea grew. It was a magical land of clouds and mist-covered peaks, but getting there had been arduous. The trails were too narrow and dangerous to use pack animals, so their bearers had to carry the heavy packages of supplies on their backs.

Sometimes they crossed swaying, wooden footbridges spanning crevasses hundreds of feet deep. And as Jang had warned, there were cobras and monkeys everywhere. The snakes usually slithered out of the way, so the monkeys were the bigger problem. They jumped around making faces at them, looking quite fierce.

“Do not look them in the eye,” Jang warned Marc quietly in Portuguese. “It makes them angry and agitated, and they can be mean.”

When there was no danger, the merchant would speak to Marc in English then repeat the phrase in Cantonese. Marc wished to learn as much of that tongue as he could. In the evenings, over the campfire, Jang showed him how to write the Mandarin symbols, and his skill in learning languages served him well. As the trip progressed, their admiration for each other increased. “We make good partners, my fliend,” Jang would often say.

It took them two weeks of hard climbing to get to the terraces where the tea grew in abundance, some at altitudes of 4,000 feet. It amazed Marc to discover it was a type of camellia. He had seen the lovely flowering variety in the gardens at Versailles, but this species, which produced the aromatic leaves for tea, only grew at certain latitudes, high in the misty mountains. They were planted haphazardly on the terraces and, as they needed little attention, they grew anywhere from three to six feet tall.

Marc wondered at the number of young girls who worked as teacoolies. They carried enormous burdens, which hung from bamboo sticks resting on their shoulders. Their feet were the large, unbound feet of the Haaka people.

In every village, Jang would visit the local factory, each with its own teahouse for sampling. After a few days, they came to a jade green river flowing through a verdant valley. Here, in this wondrous setting, was the most incredible town Marc had ever seen—the village of Xiamei, dating back to the Sui Dynasty over one thousand years earlier. The houses, built with exquisite brick sculptures and topped by a sea of green tile roofs, seemed to meld into each other. Patterns of flowers, birds, landscapes, and human figures decorated their facades.

In this town, the government maintained offices to control tea production, and it was the distribution center for what, Jang told him, were China’s finest teas. After they had spoken to the officials, Jang took him along a narrow lane to an especially charming house at the edge of town. It was surrounded by high walls, which hid exquisite gardens and delicate, green pavilions covered with graceful, pagoda-shaped roofs.

“This home of Fan Zou. He keeps it as an inn,” Jang explained. “You are velly tired now, are you not? We stay here one week before we go down mountain. We can visit other factories from here. I have yet much to teach you.”

To Marc’s astonishment, he could hardly find the energy to nod in agreement.

“Yes, it’s because we high up now. You not used to it. We both need rest, my young friend.”

Mr. Fan welcomed them both warmly and immediately ordered a servant to escort Marc into a luxurious bedroom. He had never been more tired in his life and thought he could sleep for days. He supposed the spirit of adventure had kept him going, but now he saw Li Jang was right. They both needed a good rest before attempting the trek down the mountain.

The dinner the inn provided was delicious—delicate, boiled dumplings filled with shredded pork and cabbage; chicken pieces in a tangy, garlic sauce; and delicious steamed vegetables—all served over beds of rice. The cuisine was completely new to Marc.

The dozen or so Chinese merchants besides Marc and Jang sat at the table, while four attractive, young women served them. “They are courtesans,” Jang whispered to Marc in English.

The beauty of the one assigned to them astounded him. Her skin, unlike the other girls, was pale, the colour of alabaster. It contrasted sharply with her black hair, piled high on her head, and the equally black, almond-shaped eyes, slanting prettily up to her eyebrows. Her lips were full and red, and he thought he had never seen a woman with such a combination of delicate and yet seductive beauty.

There hadn’t been much time to think about Louise since he had arrived in China; and now he suffered a little guilt at the sensations he experienced each time the servant girl bent down to replenish his cup of fermented, rice wine. Her cheong sam fit her neat little body tightly; and she smelled of a combination of jasmine and sandalwood. He sensed he blushed as Jang looked at him with his enigmatic smile. For once, he could almost read the merchants’ mind.

After dinner, some of the men decided to play
sic bo,
an ancient Chinese gambling game, but Marc was so tired he wanted nothing more than a hot bath and bed. Jang took him outside to a little bath house in one of the pavilions where there was a tub of steaming hot water. He had no sooner stripped out of his clothes and settled into the water, when the beautiful servant girl appeared. She carried several sponges and some large cotton drying cloths.

“Hello, Mr. Mac. I am Mei Ling. Mr. Li told me to help you tonight. You must rest so you can make long trip down the mountain. After you dry, I will do Oriental acupressure on you. It makes you sleep well.” She spoke in the Cantonese dialect but Marc understood enough of the language to know what she said.

“Oh, it’s not necessary,” he replied, beginning to feel panicky.

“It is my pleasure, Mr. Mac. You must rest and I will help you.” She began rubbing his back with the sponges. It felt so calming; he did nothing to stop her. Nor did he later, when she dried him off and took him back to his room to give him the acupressure treatment. After the soothing massage, he watched mesmerized as she slipped off her beautiful silk robe and, dressed only in a short, gauze shift, sat down on the bed beside him. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to turn to her and kiss the alabaster skin.

Marc and Li Jang stayed longer than the planned week at the house of Mr. Fan. Each day they would visit a new factory and Jang explained a great deal to him about choosing the finest teas. The merchant showed him the complete drying and fermenting process as well as how to determine the various varieties from the smell of the dried leaves. Although he woke each morning heavy-eyed and sluggish, he found himself fascinated by the whole procedure. After sampling hundreds of cups of tea, he finally picked a few he thought the English would appreciate. As his agent, Jang purchased a large shipment for him, which would be loaded on Captain Arthur’s ship as soon as they got it down the mountain.

However, he spent the evenings with Mei Ling, and it was then that he felt oddly out of this world and euphoric—as if he had become part of some strange, imaginary fantasy. It was far enough north of the equator that there was a little twilight after dinner. The two of them would stroll around the ancient town, or climb a little knoll to view the valley below. The strangely contoured mountains, rising above the mist-covered terraces, appeared to shift in shape. Even the fragrant, exotic woman standing beside him seemed sometimes to float—like a hallucination—a sensory experience existing only in his mind.

In Cantonese, the girl tried to explain to him some of the history of the Oriental people. She told him, she was from Korea and how, as a young girl, some evil men had kidnapped her and sold her into slavery. Marc didn’t understand everything she said but still he listened, captivated by her foreign charm. The feeling was not the love he felt for Louise but, she was so exquisite and desirable, he didn’t try to resist her. He’d never been so relaxed and passive in his entire life, and he wasn’t sure whether it was the refreshing mountain air; the medicinal quality of the teas; or Mei Ling’s nightly therapies.

Somehow, he was glad she didn’t have the ugly-shaped, bound feet of a typical upper class Chinese concubine. Although, he thought, it will no doubt keep her from marrying well. Oddly, that idea didn‘t make him sad.

Jang encouraged him to enjoy the respite and explained it would take the coolies at least eight weeks to get the tea down the mountain, while they would make the same journey in less than two weeks. He assured Marc, there was plenty of time before he would have to help oversee the loading of the ship in Canton. They sent a message to Captain Sharp, not to worry; they had purchased the tea; Jang would take care of the customs; and Marc would be away an extra week.

The trip, down to the city, was much easier than the climb had been. But for some reason Marc didn’t feel very well. His dreamlike state had disappeared, but he suffered from cold chills and vomiting attacks. During these bouts, Jang helped him along the narrow tracks and over the dangerous bridges, with a worried frown on his brow. However, after several days, the malady cleared up, and Marc wondered what had come over him in those mountains.

Soon they were back in Jang’s attractive house on the river. After a good nights’ sleep, Marc hurried to the port just as
The Malabar Merchant
slipped into the harbour. Captain Sharp was relieved to see him as he had made several excursions to Macau and back before receiving the message from Jang.

The captain hadn’t wanted to wear out his precarious welcome in Canton; so for a month the ship sailed back and forth along the Pearl River, first waiting for Marc and then for the coolies to bring down the tea. By the time the ship was fully loaded, it was the first of September. The weather had cooled and the trades blew to the west.

“That ought to make our trip back to India fairly speedy,” the master told Marc. “Your father will be starting to get concerned just about the time we get you home.” He smiled at him.

Marc was pleased. He had successfully completed the captain’s mission, as well as the one he had set for himself. He had made some good contacts in Canton. Li Jang, he was sure, would be his friend for life. Moreover, without parting with any money, he had acquired for himself a sizeable share of some of China’s finest teas. Teas that were now destined to his father’s London warehouse, while he headed back to join him in Pondicherry.

Chapter 25

Indian Ocean, Late October 1687

A
s the massive British trading ship slipped out of the Straits of Malacca and into the Bay of Bengali, Marc breathed a sigh of relief. Behind them lay the looming, silent island of Sumatra and the always-present danger of the Malacca pirates.

He stood near the bow of the ship watching three fun-loving dolphins racing and diving into the whitecaps breaking from the prow. To the right a forest of green palms swayed on the nearby Island of Nicabar. Ahead, as the sun swiftly sank into a sea of molten gold, the sky ranged from citrus green to pale lemon to a soft pink and finally a burst of bright orange as the large orb disappeared behind the horizon. That close to the equator, there was no twilight and almost immediately, it was dark.

He raised his eyes heavenward, as always fascinated by the brilliancy of the star clusters, and, once again, recognized his belief in a Creator. He wondered why it was only on the ocean that he had this awareness of spirituality. On land, I’m a different person and not always particularly moral, he acknowledged to himself. It seemed that once away from the sea, his God was far off from him. There were too many distractions then. In his heart, he was aware that this was what Louise’s father held against him.

Still he was happy. The worst of his long journey to China was over. With a little help from the trades, he should soon be in India with his father. A few more months and they would be free to return to France. Yes, he thought, Father will be pleased with what I’ve accomplished over the last six months.

Pondicherri, November 1687

The bazaars, with their exotic goods, as usual swarmed with people and activity when Marc finally disembarked
The Malabar Merchant
at Pondicherry harbour and made his way through to the main street. The stalls were crammed with a variety of products: pearls and diamonds, gold and ivory, perfumes and opium as well as an array of Indian textiles. There, too, the women sold their aromatic spices. The odours of India surrounded him, the pleasant aromas of cinnamon, cumin, and coriander, along with the pungent stench of unwashed bodies and unburied excrement. It did not feel like he had been away from India for six months. Nevertheless, he was glad that soon he would see his father.

He and Captain Sharp had bidden each other farewell on the bridge. “Don’t worry about your cargo,” the captain said. “I know a good broker in London. He’s a French Huguenot, so you can trust him to see it gets to your father’s warehouse. I would recommend him to anyone. The tea leaves are dried so they don’t lose their flavour.”

“I appreciate that, Captain. I’ll no doubt be there before the end of next year. I’ll have to go with father back to France first, of course.

“Then let me know as soon as you get to England,” Captain Sharp had said. “I have a fairly long shore leave coming to me after this voyage, so I‘m sure I’ll still be home. I’m confident the Company will have a place for a man of your abilities, and I’ll be happy to do what I can for you. It’s been most enjoyable having you on boar, Marc. In fact, I don’t know how we’d have managed without you.”

He shook Marc’s hand then and added, “You must give my regards to your father and tell him, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting him again.
Adieu,
my young friend.”

Once through the bazaar, it didn’t take long for Marc to find a palanquin, or
palkee
—as the Indians called it—large enough to hold him and the one piece of baggage he had taken with him. Soon they manoeuvred their way through the teeming masses of humanity along Rue de le Francois Martin, towards the garrison of the French East India Company.

It took about fifteen minutes to get there. He paid one of the four bearers the agreed upon rupees for the trip, and headed into the general office. As he entered the room, there was a sudden silence in the buzz of voices. One of the clerks came towards him and, throwing his arms around him, kissed him on each cheek.

“Marc,” he said with a catch in his voice. “We are so glad you are back. The
commissaire
will want to see you immediately. Come along with me right now. I know he is free.” He marched Marc toward Francois Martin’s office.

Monsieur Martin greeted him warmly, and waited until he had settled into a chair to speak. He looked unusually serious. “Well, Marc, did you fulfill your father’s wishes? You look none the worse for such a difficult trip.”

“It’s what I’m best at, sir and, yes, I think I’ve done well in that regard. Where is my father? Is he not working today?”

“No, my boy. In fact—I’m afraid I have bad news for you. Your father took sick over a month ago. We think it’s the Tertian fever. The doctor has tried everything to help him but—I’m sorry to have to say this to you, lad—he says Jacques is dying.”

Mark went cold. “Good lord, sir,” he said. “You can’t mean it. He’s so strong and he’s not old at all.”

The
commissaire
looked at the young man with compassion. “It’s true, but the ague is no respecter of age nor strength, I’m afraid. Some get better in a week or so; some succumb, and there seems to be no good reason for the difference. Well, come along, son. You’d better see for yourself.” He stood and, with his arm around Marc’s shoulder, escorted him out of the office and over to their large bungalow.

Marc’s stomach felt as if it had dropped to his toes. His heart was beating erratically. In his whole life, he had never known his father to be ill, and this turn of events terrified him. He had looked up to Jacques as his hero since he was a little boy.

Monsieur Martin opened the front door of the bungalow and ushered him into the darkened bedroom where the servant sat beside the bed fanning his master. Marc could not believe the change in his father. He had always maintained a good, healthy weight for his height and a robust, muscular body even in middle age. Now Jacques looked thin and wasted. His facial bones were prominent, and the skin drawn over them was the colour of saffron, with a slight greyish tinge beneath. His dark, curly hair was streaked with white and matted with sweat, and there was the musky odour of jaundice about him.

“I’ll leave the two of you together,” Monsieur Martin said. “You will have much to talk over.” He clasped Marc on the shoulder again and left the room.

Jacques moved restlessly in the bed and then his eyes opened. He saw Marc standing over him.
“Mon fils,”
he said in anguish. “You are here.
Dieu merci!
I have been praying for your return. I have much to tell you before I depart this life.”

“Papa, I’ve brought tea from China. They say it can work miracles. We’ll get you better.”

“It’s ague, Marc—marsh fever. They have given me quinine and all the old Indian remedies. There’s nothing more they can do. For myself, now you are back, I’m prepared to sleep. But there are arrangements I must make for your Maman and the girls. I need you to listen carefully.”

A sudden shudder overtook him and he began shivering. The Indian servant rushed to a small dung fire where stones heated on the brazier. He placed a couple in a blanket and hurried back to his master.

“You should be resting,
mon pere.
You must save your strength for the voyage home.”

“Listen to me, boy. I will not be leaving Pondicherry. You will bury me here in India, but no matter. We’ll meet again on Judgment Day.” He chuckled weakly. “It’s strange, but in many ways, I’m still a Huguenot at heart. Perhaps I made a mistake in renouncing my faith, but I could never accept that God predestined our destinies before he even created mankind. It wouldn’t be just, and above all else, Marc, God is just. He gives us free will and most of the time we make our own destiny. Never forget that, son. Maybe if I had chosen to flee France with Pierre, I would not now be dying. Rather ironic, is it not?”

“Oh don’t worry about such things right now. You did what you thought was best.”

“Yes you’re right my son. We should not look back. Now you must do as I ask. It’s extremely important to me.”

Marc sat down in the chair beside the bed and took his father’s wasted hand. Tears slid down his face.

“Can you get paper and ink, Marc? I want you to write down my instructions and then get two of the men to witness my signature. It will have to do for a last Will and Testament. The old one is not what I wish now, at all.
Allez.
Get the paper and two of the clerks. We have no time to waste.”

Marc was gone about twenty minutes and came back with two of the clerks from the office. His father appeared to be sleeping; the spasms had stopped; and he looked slightly better.

Pierre opened his eyes and smiled. “Ah, Marc. You are back. Now write down the following. The farm in the village and all its contents and the stock are to go to Phillipe as I promised him. Maman and the girls will move there with him. I know they’ll be happy there. I spoke about the possibility with your mother before we left. You must sell the house and the warehouse in La Rochelle. Together they’re worth a small fortune. One third of that money goes to your mother. She’ll need some of it to pay dowries for the girls. They will soon be coming of age. The balance is yours.” He stopped speaking to rest and give Marc time to write it down.

After a short time, he continued. “I told you about the gold deposits with the goldsmith in London, and there will be monies coming from ‘the company’ for my work here. There’s also the warehouse in London. As my oldest son, you should have your fair inheritance. As I say, Phillip is well satisfied with the farm in the village. It’s been in the family for four generations.”

Again, he waited until Marc finished writing his last instructions. “If you can get the money out of France, you’ll be a wealthy man. Certainly enough to give you and Louise a good start. Of courses, it’s against the law to take gold out of the country right now, so I don’t know how you’ll do it. You’ll have to work that out for yourself.”

He smiled at his son and for a moment, his look of self-assurance was back.

“By the way, you managed to purchase a load of tea in China?”

“Yes, quite a large one.”

“Well, that’s yours, of course. You have it consigned to London in your name?”

Marc, his face full of misery, nodded.

“Then that takes care of it. I’ve done my best for all of you, and that makes me happy. Here—give me the paper. I’ll sign and have these two gentlemen sign below that they’ve witnessed my signature with the date and place. Get it stamped in the office with the official seal. It should be legal enough; I think. You’ll need a certificate of death. The
commissaire
will give you one. I’ve written a letter to your mother. It’s in the drawer, but it’s sealed. You must take it to her for me.”

The effort to sign the Will seemed almost too much for him, and he sank back onto the bed with no strength left. He was damp with sweat. “Leave me now,” he whispered. I must rest for a while. Then come back, Marc. I still have things to tell you and I would like you with me when I go.”

“Mon pere.
Don’t speak of such a thing. We must get you better. We’ll try those teas. They say they even cured Emperor Kangxi when all else failed.” He patted the wasted hand and, with the two company clerks, left the room as the servant took the seat by the bed, and once again fanned his master until he fell asleep.