Shanghai by David Rotenberg Page B

and stuck their snouts out of their respective gun ports. Then all noise ceased. The wind seemed to pick up, but the anchors held the great ship still in the water.
    Admiral Gough stared at the shore and, as far as Richard could tell, said a prayer. Then he straightened his waistcoat and gave an order to his adjutant, who promptly called out: “Fire!”
    The heavens opened as the thunder of the ship’s twenty-six wide-bore port side cannons transformed the Chinese gun emplacements into the muddy, blooded places where men’s lives come to an abrupt end. Richard watched, and the horror of lives lost entered his head. For an instant he thought of his last moments with his mother in the hovel in Calcutta—her life slowly flowing from her emaciated White Russian body, her red hair so thin that he saw more scalp than hair. Then his wife’s dying cry of “Why? What have you done!” echoed through his head. He turned—and he was with her again.
    â€”
    â€œWhat have you done, Richard?” Sarah asked as she turned slowly in the morning light of their Malaybedroom, showing off her large, pregnant belly to her handsome husband.
    Richard sat up in their bed and put on a face of mock horror. “My goodness,” he said, pointing at her belly, “could I have had something to do with that?”
    â€œOnly a very little something—a very, very little something,” she said as a lascivious grin creased her full lips. Then she posed demurely, although completely naked, against a foot post of their four-poster bed.
    Richard laughed, then said, “It’s a work day, Sarah” and got to his feet.
    â€œReally?” she asked, pointing at his tented pyjama bottoms. “That kind of work I could, perhaps, help you with.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œReally, my darling!”
    Richard held out his hand, and she took it. He guided her onto the bed, then stood back. Another aghast look crossed his face. “I do believe that the dirty deed was done on these very premises.”
    But Sarah knew differently. It had been the day on the south island when she had insisted on a picnic. There on the beach, as the sun set, they had made slow, easy love. And she had connected to the ground and the sound of the waves rolling in and a new life within her. That night they’d slept beneath the stars and she had felt it—the earth spin. And she had spun with it.
    Richard positioned the pillows to support her back, and she mounted the high bed, then held her arms out to her fine husband, the father of that which grew within her.
    â€œPromise me something, Richard?”
    â€œAnything.”
    â€œThat you’ll write something for me. Just for me.”
    â€œI’ve already—”
    â€œSomething new. After I give birth. Something to celebrate me becoming a mother. And be sure to give it to our child.”
    â€œAs you wish, Sarah.” He breathed the words into her mouth. “As you wish.”
    Then, as their energies came together and they brought what Asians call the clouds and rain, she whispered in his ear, “What have you done, Richard, what have you done?” But Richard heard more than just a coy come-on in the words. He heard the beginnings of an accusation.
    â€”
    The cannonade lasted for hours, despite the fact that it had been some time since the shore batteries had returned fire.
    Before the landing party had fully disembarked, Richard took Maxi aside. Jollyboats, cutters, bumboats, and colourful skiffs were in constant motion between the large troop transports and the landing site. As usual, the Chinese hadn’t deigned to defend against the foreigners’ landing.
    â€œThey may fight as you get closer to the centre of the city,” Richard said. “The walls you should be able to scale with no problem. In the first skirmish, head toward the south gate.”
    â€œYou’ve told me three times, brother