Shanghai by David Rotenberg Page A

she asked.
    â€œMan’s food,” the toothless vendor replied.
    â€œMost days I agree,” Jiang said, “but not today.”
    â€œExpensive,” he prompted.
    â€œHow much?”
    He quoted an astronomical figure—the laughing price—and she promptly laughed in his face and turned to go. He chased after her and said, “So tell me, how much are you willing to pay?”
    She quoted an outrageously low price—the crying price—and he made appropriate protestations.
    Five minutes, two threats to leave, and one threat to kill her later and they had settled on a price.
    The snake man reached into his burlap bag and withdrew a king cobra as fat around as a man’s arm. He adjusted his hand to secure his grip on the back of the reptile’s head.
    She nodded.
    The snake lashed out with the full strength of its six-foot body, but the snake seller was expert at his craft. He knelt in front of a thick log sticking out of the ground. With one quick motion he forced open the cobra’s jaws and the fangs scissored out of its mouth. Just as the poison tipped the end of the fangs, the man slammed the cobra’s head down onto the cut end of the log. The fangs dug deep into the soft wood. The body of the snake thrashed viciously at the air, but it was firmly secured to the log by its fangs. The snake seller looked up and smiled a toothless grin, then withdrew a slender blade and made his first cut.
    Jiang enjoyed the skinning of the snake. She had seen it done many times before, but it never failed to surprise her when the snake seller threw the skin high into the air. It landed on the ground and thrashed—thrashed as if it were still somehow alive. Very male, Jiang thought. With the arrival of the ships I’ll need all the masculine blood in me that I can manage.
    She gave the tail third of the flesh to the beggars standing to one side, who ate it raw. The rest she tucked into a package, and then she raced toward the river.
    She got there just as the second ship rounded the west bend.
    She watched the great ships—and she knew that nothing would be the same, ever again.
    A clatter of birds above her made her look up. The starlings from the rice paddies were falling in ever-narrowing spirals, the weight of the reeds dragging them earthward. A tiny bird crashed to the ground on the path ahead of her. She ran to retrieve it, only to be caught in a hail of hundreds of falling, screaming starlings.
    She put up her lovely hands to protect her face, and as she did she looked to the high ridge.
    There she saw the Body Guard and the Confucian, both staring at the ships.
    Then she heard the sound of the Chinese artillery—all three did. And all three of the Chosen knew that their job was to usher in the darkness, not defeat it with cannons.

chapter eight
Shanghai
    At the Bend in the River December 1841
    As Richard contemplated his future at the Bend in the River, the mizzen-mast let out a shriek and the single topgallant sail ripped into shreds like so much tissue. The long canvas strands were quickly picked up by the strong wind and snapped angrily.
    A second gingall blast from the shore battery slammed into the bowsprit.
    â€œCannon on the south shore!” screamed two seamen in unison from their respective crow’s nest perches.
    Orders were shouted. A sailor’s torn body was quickly covered with sheeting, as all hands ran to battle stationsand the great ship came about, its massive expanse of canvas luffing in the momentary calm.
    The hills on the south side of the river just past the widest part of the arc were lined with long-barrelled, small-calibre cannons: gingalls. But there were enough of them to do some damage. Once the ship was broadside to the land, the mariners dropped anchor both fore and aft—then the port side gun ports slammed open.
    The grind and screech of iron wheels against oaken floorboards filled the air as the ship’s cannons moved forward