The China Plot

By Ivan Brackin

The China Plot dramatizes an epic that could well stand as a sequel to The Last Emperor . It reveals an enthralling chapter in Asian history that has been overlooked for eighty years.
In the l930's Pu-chieh, brother of the last emperor of China, was used by the Japanese military in an effort to establish a Japanese bloodline on the throne of China following their conquest of Manchuria.
The Kwangtung Army, Japan's army of occupation, with the cooperation of the military-political clique of pre-war Japan, selected as his partner for this task a demure, and very reluctant, young woman from the Japanese aristocracy.
The astonishing intrigue propelling Hiro Saga's marriage; the tumultuous story of her experiences in wartime China; her unforeseen love for Pu-chieh; the demise of the puppet country Manchukuo, and her courageous flight with a young daughter, from the Russians, Mao’s communists, bandits, republicans, and her eventual capture and escape, all make up the background of The China Plot.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ivan Brackin
• Release date: Dec 30, 2010
• ISBN: 9781458059055

Ivan Brackin

Born in Cheshire, England, in l941. Left those sunny 'hic' shores in l963 to drive to Australia. Should have bought a map. Made it to Karachi and eventually by foot and boat to Japan where I started a small ad agency. Wrote ad copy for 35 years and typed out about a dozen or more books on an IBM Selectric. Mostly humor accompanied by my cartoons. Discovered computers two years ago and now converting dusty manuscripts to the books the world has been denied for thirty years, using the marvelous opportunity presented by Smashwords.Now retired on a small island called Yoron. Enjoy gardening, messing about with a boat, writing, Googling, golf on a sweet little nine holer, par 27 , and ogling at the marvelous sea.

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The China Plot

by

Ivan L.Brackin

********

SMASHWORDS EDITION

The China Plot

Copyright ©2010 Ivan Brackin

The China Plot

Prologue

Beijing 1967

They were burying an emperor.

The heavens wept at the simplicity of the ceremony, at the paucity of mourners. Where was the pomp - the swirl of silken banners; the legions of warriors clad in bronze, their horses steaming in the rain? Where were the bellowing horns and weeping consorts; the saffron streams of the devout; the rivers of decorated llamas and hordes of keening eunuchs ? And where were the Manchu’s ? Only a cluster of umbrellas shining through the drizzle marked these last rites for China's imperial history.

Emperor Hsuan Tung, last of the Ching emperors, last of a dynastic system that flowered eight centuries before the walls of Rome were laid, would soon join the dust that blows endlessly across the lonely steppes.

The earthenware pot holding his ashes disappeared with the raindrops into the blackness of the grave. From the group of people only one or two went forward to place flowers on the mound of ochre soil before hurrying away into the mist.

One man stayed longer than the rest. Grief crumpled his face but no tears fell. The time for tears had long past. Then he, too, turned to leave. He made his way slowly to the remaining car, an official Shanghai limousine they'd let him use. Once he paused to look back, but the marker was already lost in the bleakness of Pa Pao cemetery.

The car rode the potholes between the sprawl of brick and mud walls that formed the hovels of northern Peking. Flocks of geese grumbled out of their way like fat ladies on sore feet, spurred on by boys with sticks and accurately flung stones. Occasionally a goose would flap wildly from under the hooves of one of the many donkeys trotting ahead of carts laden with vegetables, bricks, pigs and straw.

From the relative snugness of the Shanghai the man looked out on this timeless scene of peasants' China; looked without seeing for his mind was in a time frame that might have been a millennium ago.

Memories of the China his brother had known, a very different place, were still engulfing his mind as the car passed the grand villas that were once palaces of imperial family members and now housed foreign missions and government offices.

At the main crossing of Te-shen Street they were held up by a stream of youths, their gender hidden beneath baggy green suits, slowly marching and chanting slogans as they thrust small red books in the air. In their midst shuffled a knot of elderly men, grey-haired, stooped, roped together like packhorses. Crude signs hung from their necks.

He studied their faces impassively - the latest victims of China's revolutionary madness. In the prison he had seen a thousand such broken men. Those holding the ropes were little more than children, brought in from provinces as far away as Yunnan, their blank faces portraying only mindless ideology.

These sights were now common in the streets of the capital, which was why it was unwise for him to wander far from his forest of bookracks in the halls of the Ministry of Culture.

Some of the revolutionaries broke away from their comrades, intending to assault the vehicle, but seeing the state's ‘Protected Person’ sticker contented themselves with spitting on the windscreen. It reminded the man of a similar incident, of a wild warrior on a wild pony accosting his carriage in a street very close to this spot. That seemed such a long, long time ago.

A few minutes later the car passed through the old walls of the Imperial City. He looked up reflectively to the shadow of Prospect Hill. It was here that the previous dynasty, that of the Mings, met its end with the suicide of emperor Chung-cheng some three hundred years ago. As his car rounded the hill, the mist seemed to lift like a curtain and the skyline filled with a sea of sweeping parapets flowing like grey storm waves up to rank upon rank of majestic rooftops.

The throne halls dominating the massed roofs were once topped by golden sweeps of glazed tiles, distinguishing this seat of imperial power. Like a fading sunset, time had melted the gilt grandeur of the roofs to a dull grey, tinged yellow here and there with memories of past glory. As always, he caught his breath at the inspiring sight.

This was the Forbidden City, a monument symbolic of the past might of China and the men and women who ruled the most spacious realms in the world. In the end it was to enshroud all that remained of the empire, all that was doomed in the kingdom.

His car drew up alongside a moat beyond which walls of great stone blocks towered up in unbroken splendour. The old stones ached with carrying the burden of the last tumultuous chapter of Chinese imperial history.

Ordering the driver to stop and refusing the offer of an umbrella, he turned up his collar, resettled his trilby hat and began to walk towards the Gate of Spiritual Valour, the north entrance to the Forbidden City. It was a journey he had taken many times before.

This was the city his brother had once ruled over. His Manchu ancestors had rebuilt it after it had been sacked and mostly destroyed by the bandit warlord Li Tsu-cheng, the man who had administered the final sword thrusts to the Ming Empire. Within the numerous palaces, beneath the ocean of ornamental rooftops, among the maze of streets, alleys and courtyards where countless thousands of palace retainers had lived and died, time had stood still. While in the outside world the airplane, telephone and radio were becoming a part of daily life at the dawn of the twentieth century, inside the silent walls three thousand eunuchs were still kowtowing to every imperial wish and following rituals laid down a thousand years before Marco Polo.

Pu-chieh walked through gateway after gateway of memories, over flagstones now polished by the countless footsteps of strangers. The storm beaten cypress was still there, and he smiled as he wondered whether the line of ants still trickled into the old tree. His stroll took him past the Hall of the Nurture of the Mind where he and his brother had listened, sometimes enraptured, often bored, as their old tutors had unfolded the intricate history of China, stories of others who had inhabited the Forbidden City and sat upon the Dragon Throne. He wondered who was left who dared repeat the tales of old.

With a pang in his heart he realized there was only himself left to live the final chapter. Would he ever relate the stories to his children? Would he ever again see them?

The China Plot

Chapter 1

Amid the bustle of Akasaka, Tokyo, the noble house of Marquis Saga was normally an island of aloof serenity, but on this late winter afternoon of 1914, beneath a fall of snow caressing the ancient curves of the oriental roof, the house was astir with muted excitement. Servants on rope soled 'tabi' shuffled with silent haste along its polished corridors. The usual banal chatter of the kitchen had become a tremulous whisper as cooks prepared soybean filled sweetcakes, toasted tofu cubes and heated sake in small decorative kettles. These were for the marquis and his distinguished guests waiting with suppressed anxiety behind one of the many paper shoji doors in the east wing.

A small room in the south wing of the house was the focal point of all activity and usually the province of only females. Today, the exception for this special occasion was one ancient male doctor. It was here that Grandmother Hamaguchi, mother of Marchioness Hisako Saga had assumed charge, her spirited personality giving an almost festive air to the proceedings. Dressed as usual in a dark kimono, the tapes of her white working apron binding up the sleeves, she was as stolid as one of the rocks in the garden as she relayed the doctor's murmured orders to the young housemaids. Having given birth herself to four daughters and three sons and helped deliver a host of other grandchildren there was nothing grandma Hamaguchi didn't know about childbearing.

Today, the center of all attention lay on a silk covered mattress on the straw tatami floor, her head supported by a bead pillow. Childbirth was very close for Hisako Saga, now in her eighteenth year.

Soon after five o'clock in the afternoon Hisako gave a low wail of pain and gently the doctor, under the stern looks and guiding hand of grandma Hamaguchi, pried loose a slippery, feebly kicking infant. Grandma Hamaguchi instantly took charge of the baby while the old doctor deftly tended to the new mother. A camphor wood tub appeared and grandma, first testing it with her experienced elbow, lowered the child into the warm water.

The baby's first bellow, filtering through the curtains of snow shrouding the ornamental garden, reached the ears of the four men in the east wing. They sat at a low Japanese table, feet tucked under their backsides. Around the table were three generations of Saga men plus uncle Hamaguchi, representing the maternal side of the family. The oldest of the four was Sanenaru Saga, a living legend in Japanese court circles. Devoted to a lifetime of imperial service, he had so far been chamberlain to four emperors, starting with the Emperor Ninko in 1843. He was eventually to pass away while a chamberlain in the palace of Emperor Showa, the fifth emperor he was to serve. The title of marquis had been granted by Emperor Meiji, along with the honourary family name of Saga. Now he had gently nodded off into a light doze, not a muscle moved.

The youngest Marquis Saga was still sitting erect despite just having poured for himself and his companions their eighth flask of sake. His father raised his sake cup once more.

I think congratulations are in order, my son.

It appears so, joined in uncle Hamaguchi. There seems to be a new member of the Saga clan. I would suggest a girl by the pitch of the wail, but then I suppose all new babies sound alike.

They were laughing at this remark when the paper doors slid open to reveal the coiffure of a housemaid's head. Like all housemaids in the Saga household she wore a modest kimono of autumn tints, bound by a sky blue obi.

Please forgive me for disturbing your honours, but madam Hamaguchi has suggested that perhaps you would like to come to the south wing...

As was proper, her eyes never met those of the men and, having delivered her message, she bowed even lower and reached out to reclose the shoji doors.

J-just a moment, sputtered the new father, for a moment the afternoon's alcohol getting the better of decorum. How about the baby, is it...?

No, no, that's all right, interrupted father Saga, waving away the abashed maid. I am sure it would be better to find out its gender for yourself. That's if you've not drunk too much sake to detect the difference.

The men roared with laughter at this and the blushing maid once more bowed to hide a smile and closed the shoji doors with a soft click. The old marquis' eyes opened and again toasting each other's good fortune they drained their sake cups. He was the first to rise.

Well, my grandson, as this is your most important day, you have the honour. Lead the way!

Normally, nobody in the Saga household walked ahead of the old marquis. The new father bowed his head in token of the gesture and the four men, adapting the bland expressions of their breeding, strolled with composure along the corridors to the south wing.

Another maid was waiting by the delivery room and opened the shoji for them.

Removing his slippers the marquis stepped onto the tatami mats. First he bowed with gravity to the aged doctor before looking across to the futon and his wife's pale young face. Clutched into the nape of her neck was a small, dark, snuffling head. The marquis' eyes sought his wife's, a query written in them.

It's Hiro chan., she whispered tentatively.

Hiro was the name the family clan had earlier decided for a girl, a boy would have been named after one of the famous poets or painters.

The marquis smiled warmly, not wishing to show the twinge of disappointment he felt. So be it. A boy would come later; perhaps it would be better for his son to have an elder sister. He nodded to the nursemaid and held out his palms.

Grandma Hamaguchi, who had been watching him keenly, pushed the nursemaid aside and shuffled across to herself take the baby from its mother's arms and cradle it in her own. She wasn't going to trust any young maid with her new granddaughter.

The marquis showed little reaction, as he looked at the pert little face, perhaps a slight pursing at the corners of his mouth. Then he nodded several times in approval, made a motion for it to be shown to the elder men and went to stand to look down upon his wife.

Are you alright ?

His tone was unusually kind and she nodded smiling. It was the first time he had shown a gentle side to his nature. Since their marriage, arranged between their families the previous year, she had been in awe of the marquis. He had been aloof and cold, his lovemaking brief and furious. He moved over to the doctor to offer formal thanks and both men bowed several times to each other - the doctor lower than the marquis. There would be a large contribution to his private hospital in the near future, but that was almost incidental to the prestige of attending to a family so close to the Japanese imperial blood line.

The China Plot

Chapter 2

Tientsin-China, 1928

Emperor Pu-yi, last of the Ching emperors, last of a dynastic system that had flowered eight centuries before the walls of Rome were laid, struck wildly at his desk, sending papers scattering and a jade ink pot crashing to the floor. Before him sat Pu-chieh, his younger brother, his head clutched between his hands, eyes tightly closed in anguish. Around the room stood members of the Ching clan, older men in short quilted coats and heavy pleated skirts. Tears fell from wispy white beards; a few had removed their embroidered skullcaps and were clenching them fitfully between their hands.

Pu-yi, facing the end of three-hundred years of Manchu reign on the heavenly throne, was in his fourth year in virtual exile in the dreary Japanese concession in Tientsin, his home a run-down mansion in the Chang Gardens.

The nationalist government of the Koumintang, since ejecting the emperor from the Forbidden City in 1924, had tightened their grip throughout China. Within its patronage a rabid Anti-Manchu League had spread, whose main activities were discrediting and threatening the lives of the emperor and his supporters with the ultimate aim of wiping out all monarchist sympathies. News of the pillaging and devastation of the Tung Ling mausoleum in eastern Peking had reached the concession that morning. Those sacred tombs were the resting place of one of the greatest sovereigns ever to occupy the throne of China.

Emperor Kao Tsung had been revered by every Manchu, honoured and respected by all loyal subjects throughout his reign occupying sixty years of the 18th century. With him had been buried the Dowager Empress Tzu-hsi. Now with her ancestors, the tyrant empress had been afforded the full honours customarily due a Grand-Empress Dowager, a traditional acknowledgment of her status now dead rather than her vile personality and actions while alive.

Pu-yi's messengers had described to a weeping throng of Ching members the hideous scene in the tomb - how they had chased away wild dogs from the bones and remains of the two interred corpses, hacked to pieces and scattered around the sacred grounds.

The robbers had used dynamite to burst open the massive granite mausoleum. An injured plunderer had been captured and, with a knife at his throat, told all to the emperor. He would later be taken into the courtyard and quickly dispatched by the broadsword of a grieving relative. This was a soldier of General Sun Tien-ying, an ex-bandit, opium peddler and now a commander in the services of Chiang Kai-shek, leader of the Koumintang government. T he captive now knelt on the floor trembling and sobbing.

General Sun Tien-ying, he said, had announced military maneuvers and cleared everyone out of the area. Then they had dug for three days and nights, blasting their way through solid granite to reach the interior tombs. In confessing his part in the action the groveling soldier was forced to describe the site while begging pardon for his unforgivable sin.

With a platoon of selected troops he had passed through white, marble-lined tunnels and four marble gates. The main vault, he said, had inspired awe from all; a great octagonal room with a high domed ceiling on which were carved nine golden dragons, glittering as if with malice at the unwelcome lights from the intruders' torches. The hardwood coffins had been placed on top of octagonal marble plinths. There was gold everywhere - ingots and gold vessels, and around the vault all items were made of rare jewels. The general himself had torn the funerary objects from the coffin of Tzu-hsi. She had been lain in a sea of pearls, emeralds, gems and diamonds. Around her skull was the phoenix crown she had worn when alive - gigantic pearls and braided gold - while from her breast he had plucked a peony comprised of a solid cluster of jewels.

The commander had ordered a soldier to smash her forearm with his sword to relieve the body of a dazzling bracelet - a chrysanthemum set within six small plum blossoms all composed of diamonds. The pearl slippers he removed himself saying they would make a fine gift for Soong Mei-ling, Chang Kai-shek's new bride.

In the skeletal hand that had once directed a dying empire was clutched an emerald wand - the empress dowager's last barrier against the demons that no doubt had haunted her dreams.

Whilst the articles around Tzu-hsi reflected her life of extravagance, those among which the Emperor Kao Sung was interred glorified the magnificent culture of his court. There were paintings, calligraphy, books, ornaments beautifully fashioned in jade, ivory and coral, and golden statues of the Buddha. Ripples of dust mapped out where fine tapestries, coverlets and carpets of silk had perished.

The clansmen of Ching groaned in anguish as they listened to the wretched captive report on the last hours of peace of their greatest ancestor.

Pu-chieh stayed with his brother throughout that night, the emperor's mood reverting from fits of physical fury to hours of smoldering gloom and muttered threats.

As a summer's dawn inflamed the ochre cornices and pilasters of the room in the Chang mansion the rhythmic chirping of the cicadas was joined by a cacophony of birds greeting the new day.

The joy of summer was in the air beyond the grey ramparts but in the courtyard the low moaning of a hundred men bewailed the loss of their ancestral heritage and the release of the spirits of their great forbearers. Throughout the hours of darkness men had flocked from all quarters of the city and countryside until the courtyard could hold no more. Veterans of the royal clan and former Manchu officials who had spent years lying low were roused into action by the atrocity. They formed an unending stream, taking their turn on the prayer mats to kowtow and weep before the spirit tablets and incense set up before the steps of the mansion.

In days to come enormous funds were to pour in for restoration of the mausoleum, together with demands for punishment of the perpetrators of such an outrage. General Sun Tien-ying's name was mentioned with hatred and the name of Chiang Kai-shek spat out, especially when it was rumoured he had accepted a large part of the booty from the imperial tombs.

The warm, crimson hues of the morning sun seemed to temper the icy bitterness that had accompanied Pu-yi's night and replace it with a burning determination. He would get revenge. He would use the inflamed passions of the Manchus and those loyal to the monarchy against the republican tomb robbers and create an upsurge of sympathy for the restoration movement.

It was time to plan. He remembered what the royalist general Chang Hsun had told him after his abortive restoration attempt so many years back, As long as I live the Great Ching shall not perish.

To this he added his own vow as he spoke to his mourning clansmen, If I do not avenge this wrong I am not an Aisin-Gioro.

Turning to Pu-chieh he led him into an inner chamber, Come brother we have much to discuss.

Once the two of them were alone Pu-yi spoke wearily, the grief of the long night apparent in the slump of his shoulders.

My advisors tell me that our hopes for restoration lie with the Japanese. They will help us whip these republican dogs. At heart the Japanese are true monarchists. They need us in the northeast to unify the people behind a Manchurian monarchy. We need their force of arms to support us while we build the foundations of a renewed Ching dynasty. I have ordered discreet negotiations with them and they are proving most amenable to assisting our aims. If these are to be fulfilled it is imperative that I rule not only from a strong throne supported by the will of the people, but also with the backing of a powerful military; our military; our generals.

Pu-yi paused, and bitterness enveloped his face.

Unfortunately, Chiang Kai-shek's National Government in Nanking has been recognized overseas. His power is greater than that of any previous warlord. He is a gangster, but a cunning gangster. He has chosen a new bride whose family are compradors in the service of Britain and America, ensuring him foreign support. But his rise to power has been bloody, won only by the armed conquests of well-paid bandit chiefs. Our rise can also be accomplished by raw power. If we are to achieve anything we must have a viable army. This will earn the foreigners' respect. Without the backing of military power the title of emperor means nothing to them.

Pu-yi was now pacing the room animatedly, his tiredness forgotten. Pu-chieh listened, wondering where this was leading. His brother continued.

Right now the Japanese regard the Chinese soldier as meek and decadent. We will change that. All our soldiers and supporters need are real leaders able to unify them; men who can win their hearts and loyalty. I want men close to me whom I can trust. Everyday I meet generals who pay lip service to the throne but who are actuated only by self-interest and greed. I have spent a fortune paying for their false loyalty and misconceived plots. Chiang Kia-shek knows our weaknesses, so robs the graves of our forefathers with such impunity.

Pu-yi was now highly excited, beginning to ramble, sitting down then suddenly jumping up, throwing his arms about.

Pu-chieh tried to calm his brother.

There is no doubt you have the hearts of the people, my dear brother, in the northeast their loyalty is beyond doubt. As you say, China lacks a true leader. Our history shows that without a strong emperor the country writhes in agony from the feuding of power-hungry warlords and political zealots. China needs you, your majesty; the dragon must return to its throne.

Pu-yi was moved by the calm, sincere voice of his brother. There were tears in his eyes as he said, We are as one, brother. You and I are now the strength behind the noble family of Aisin Gioro. The future of China is in our hands.

Pu-yi stopped and studied his brother thoughtfully.

Pu-chieh, the Japanese are our friends. They have demanded nothing, yet given us refuge and respect. They honour our imperial system as they do their own. Recently I had a meeting with General Honjo who has close ties with the Japanese Imperial Household Agency. It was intimated by Honjo that the Japanese military would look favourably upon assisting the Chinese army in training its top officers. I have since given this a great deal of thought. I must have commanders I can trust one hundred percent, part of the family. I need new generals, generals like no others in China. I want you to command the future armies of China, my young brother.

Pu-chieh stood up, dumfounded, his spectacles twinkling, but before he could voice his thoughts, Pu-yi continued.

I want you and my wife's brother Jun-chi to go to Japan and learn the modern arts of war. I want you to learn the secrets of the Japanese military might and imbue it into our own forces. When you return to China you will build me a military as good or even better than the Japanese Kwangtung army.

Pu-chieh found his voice, but it was hardly a whisper.

My brother, your majesty. I...I am hardly the material for a soldier. Surely I can be of greater value to you in other ways, a cabinet minister, perhaps, or an overseas envoy?

No! snapped the emperor. "You will not be a foot-licking diplomat, nor will you be a mere soldier, you will be the future commander of all the imperial armed forces, a figurehead and leader. Together, brother, the