Chapter Seventy-Nine: Dividing the Chicken

Yureisal’s face turned ashen; everyone knew the Russians had suffered a setback in Western Liaoning, but for the Japanese to bring it up in this setting—this was the first time! And yet, he had no grounds to refute it. The battle in Western Liaoning had been a disgrace for the Russian army: tens of thousands of troops failed to defeat a band of Chinese bandits, and another group of bandits had inflicted utter chaos upon them. There were many reasons, but in truth, such a thing defied explanation.

What Uchida Yasuya mentioned was not without basis; indeed, all the foreign powers had hesitated greatly before dispatching their forces this time, fearing they would be drawn into a prolonged war. Yet, as they wavered, uncertain whether to attack or how, the southern Chinese officials signed a non-aggression pact with the foreigners: as long as the foreign powers did not march south, they would not involve themselves in the northern conflict.

This was simply unbelievable! Since the Taiping Rebellion, the Qing dynasty’s military strength had been concentrated in the south, with the Hunan Army, the Huai Army, and the new Shandong Army being the most elite. Yet these crack troops of the Qing sat by as the foreigners captured the imperial capital, making no move, and Yuan Shikai, with tens of thousands of well-equipped troops stationed nearby in Shandong, did not come to the rescue. This was an undeniable fact. Yureisal felt a profound sense of embarrassment!

Meanwhile, Domlikshava and Minister Shirley had finished their dance. With great poise, Shirley allowed her to take his arm and return to the table. “What were you all discussing just now?” he asked.

Sir Claude MacDonald, the British minister, replied, “We were discussing your dancing. Just now, the Japanese and Russian ministers both agreed that when you and this beautiful lady dance, it’s like a duck embracing a swan.”

Of course, this was a joke. The alliance between the British and French was strong, and MacDonald and Shirley enjoyed an excellent relationship. Shirley took no offense, and, with courtly manners, pulled out a chair for Domlikshava before she sat. As a waiter brought over a dish, Shirley hastily took it himself. “What is this dish?”

“Chinese cuisine—spicy fish.”

He placed it before Domlikshava, not yet lifting the lid. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is my favorite Chinese dish. It’s covered in chilies, which may look intimidating, but the fish is exquisite—delicate and flavorful, its color white and lustrous. I’m sure this lady will love it as well.”

Domlikshava frowned faintly. “Forgive me, sir. I prefer Western food. I dislike anything Chinese, I’m sorry.”

Shirley, unaware of her aversion to all things Chinese, lifted the lid himself. “At least have a look. My chef is first-rate, I believe you’ll enjoy it.”

Yet as he lifted the cover, a burnt smell rushed forth. Domlikshava instinctively covered her nose, and Shirley was stunned to find a charred, blackened fish within—no sign of color or fragrance remained.

MacDonald burst out laughing. “My dear friend, do you think we’ve never tasted Chinese food? To be fair, the other dishes were quite good, but this fish… best not to recommend it.”

Shirley’s expression soured; he waved for a servant to remove the plate. “My chef must have been slacking off. I’ll give him a piece of my mind later.”

Just as he spoke of Yang Xiaolin, the man entered, carrying a tray. He nearly collided with a Chinese man, almost spilling the dish. Looking closer, he recognized the man from the teahouse the other day—it was Yang Duxi. The fellow had really made it inside!

Yang Xiaolin hadn’t seen Yang Du’s name on the guest list and wondered by what means he’d slipped in.

Yang Du’s eyes darted about, searching for someone. Catching sight of Yang Xiaolin’s Chinese features, he grabbed him. “Hey, have you seen Mr. Ren?”

Yang Xiaolin frowned. “Mr. Ren? Who’s Mr. Ren?”

Sizing him up, Yang Du saw only a kitchen worker’s attire and quickly lost interest. “Never mind, get back to your work.”

Watching his retreating back, Yang Xiaolin’s lips curled in a faint smile. Yang Duxi—this was a man who intrigued him greatly.

History’s appraisal of Yang Du is mixed: some say he was a genius, others a scoundrel. To Yang Xiaolin, he was well-suited to be a bandit.

Why?

First, Yang Du was shameless. When wanted by the Qing court, he fled to Japan and, without hesitation, cut off his queue—sooner even than Sun Yat-sen! He became a key figure in the Revolutionary Alliance, swearing to overthrow the Empress Dowager.

But later, when a Qing prince invited him back to serve, Yang Du immediately left the revolutionaries and returned. No queue? He fashioned a fake one to present himself before the very Empress Dowager he once denounced.

Furthermore, Yang Du was unscrupulous, a notorious turncoat. He rose to be a cabinet minister for the Qing—no mean feat—yet when the dynasty fell, he switched allegiance to Yuan Shikai. Yuan valued him highly, yet even before Yuan’s fall, Yang Du had already found a new patron.

A bandit must be shameless and unscrupulous—but that alone is not enough. A true bandit may lack principles or virtue, but he must be loyal.

Yang Du valued loyalty. Though he met Li Dazhao only a few times, he considered him a close friend. When Li was captured by Zhang Zuolin, Yang Du sold his house to raise ransom money. Even at the peak of his fame, Yang Du was not wealthy, but when he heard his friend Yang Qinghe was in hardship, he organized a donation among fellow provincials. It was that donation which prevented his reputation from being utterly ruined.

The donation was managed by Cai Yuanpei. There were twenty-eight contributors, ranked by social standing. Yang Du was first, Cai Yuanpei second. The rest didn’t matter—what mattered was twenty-seventh: a native of Xiangtan, Hunan, surname Mao.

Yang Du was also persistent.

He clung to his ideals, determined to establish constitutional monarchy—persisting even when all others deemed it impossible.

To be a bandit, one needs a spirit of never turning back.

Of course, if Yang Du were merely fit to be a bandit, Yang Xiaolin wouldn’t be so delighted. He was pleased because he agreed with Yang Du’s approach to saving the country.

In the Republic, every talented individual had their own strategy. Yang Du’s was neither Three Principles of the People nor Communism, but rather the Doctrine of Gold and Iron. Gold meant money; iron, weapons. Yang Du believed only economic and military strength could save China.

In short, Yang Xiaolin decided to take Yang Du with him tonight, for he felt Yang Du was the sort of man who belonged at his side as a bandit.

Suppressing his smile, Yang Xiaolin continued carrying his tray toward Shirley’s table. With Yang Du present, he had no fear of him escaping again.

“Mr. Shirley, I’ve made a roast chicken for your enjoyment. Please, everyone, have a taste.”

He set the tray down and uncovered a perfectly roasted chicken, golden and fragrant. Shirley was surprised to see Yang Xiaolin; he didn’t recall arranging for this cook to be here. Seeing Yang Xiaolin’s courteous smile, Shirley paused, unsure what to say.

Uchida Yasuya glanced over. “Looks good!”

He reached for the dish, but Yang Xiaolin stopped his chopsticks. “Please wait, gentlemen. Allow me to serve this dish myself—it’s more meaningful that way.”

Uchida Yasuya’s hand paused in midair, reluctantly withdrawing. “Minister Shirley, your chef is quite bold. Well, let’s see how he carves this chicken.”

All eyes turned to Yang Xiaolin. A crowd gathered to watch the spectacle.

Yang Xiaolin drew a small knife and deftly sliced off the chicken’s head, placing it before Yureisal. “This must be Minister Yureisal. The chicken’s head is yours—just as Russia sliced off a vast swath of territory from the Qing in Ili. The chicken’s head is yours to claim.”

Yureisal’s expression changed at once, and the other diplomats sensed something amiss. Yang Xiaolin continued, tearing off two drumsticks. “These are the interests in Annam and the Two Guang provinces—these belong to the French. No need to argue, I’m sure you have no objections.”

“The wings are like Jiaozhou Bay—they go to the German minister. Since Germany took Jiaozhou, the Qing has had no hope of resurgence. A chicken without wings can never escape your grasp, can it?”

Soon, only the chicken’s torso remained—tattered and incomplete. Yang Xiaolin slapped the body with his hand, cut open the abdomen, and extracted a handful of innards, fishing out the intestines. “This is like the Qing’s salt tax, which I believe is now in American hands. Which of you is Minister Conger?”

Conger straightened his suit. “That’s me.”

Yang Xiaolin handed it over. “Forgive me for not distinguishing Americans from Britons, but this must be Minister MacDonald. It was you who first forced open the gates of the Qing, and now your influence is immense—you get whatever you want, often without even sending gunboats. These offal are yours.”

By now, Shirley had realized something was wrong and was about to call for security when Yang Xiaolin raised a hand. “Wait, Minister Shirley. I believe my divisions are fair. Let me finish carving the chicken.”

Before Shirley could reply, MacDonald lit a cigar. “Let him finish!”

Yang Xiaolin bowed to him. “Thank you, Minister MacDonald. Now, who’s next? Ah, there’s a bowl of chicken blood here, reserved for Minister Uchida. In the Sino-Japanese War, you bled the Qing dry—the Beiyang Fleet destroyed, Taiwan and Korea lost forever, 230 million taels in indemnities. Well done!”

Uchida accepted the bowl of blood, the only one to stand and take something directly from Yang Xiaolin. By now, the music in the hall had stopped; all eyes were on Yang Xiaolin as he divided the roast chicken.

Finally, Yang Xiaolin’s gaze fell on the Italian. He sliced off the tail. “Apologies, but you Italians came late—only this bit remains. I hope it satisfies your appetite.”

Now, only a bare carcass with a few shreds of meat remained. Yang Xiaolin shook his head. “There’s still a little meat left. I know you all intend to pick it clean. This chicken has made it clear—she’s willing to exhaust China’s resources for your pleasure. So you all want the last scraps—Japanese, Russians, British, Americans—all of you, isn’t that so?”

At last, Shirley could bear it no longer and sprang to his feet. “Guards! Arrest him!”

A squad of soldiers rushed in, but to MacDonald’s astonishment, when they entered, Shirley’s face turned deathly pale.

The black soldiers who stormed in did not arrest Yang Xiaolin. Instead, they quickly spread out, guns at the ready, aiming not at Yang Xiaolin but at the very guests attending the banquet.

Nirel strode to Yang Xiaolin’s side. “It’s done.”

Yang Xiaolin nodded. “Excellent.”

Their words were brief, but Shirley understood everything. His face fell as if all hope was lost. Nirel glanced at Shirley, then signaled to Yang Xiaolin. “You’d better hurry, friend. We have half an hour before we must withdraw.”

There was no need to understand Chinese to realize what was happening. The black soldiers had sealed off the hall’s only exit, trapping over two hundred guests inside; the intent was clear to all but the blind.

MacDonald whispered in Shirley’s ear, “Shirley, is this your idea of a party? Truly, you’ve surprised us!”

Shirley was at a loss to explain how things had come to this. Yet, as a minister, he composed himself in the face of Nirel’s menacing glare and slowly stood. “I remind you, this is the French Consulate. Any action you take here will be considered an affront to the French Empire—you will bear the consequences.”

Yang Xiaolin smiled and strode to the stage, testing the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, forgive me for disturbing your evening. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Yang Xiaolin, the very ‘Yang the Fiend’ mentioned in this newspaper.”

As if fearing they might not remember the name, he produced a newspaper to prove his identity. In truth, it was unnecessary—his reputation as ‘Yang the Fiend’ was notorious. Only days before, the Russians had convened a meeting with the British and French, seeking support for their continued presence in Western Liaoning. The most discussed topic was the atrocities committed by ‘Yang the Fiend’ in that region.

No one had imagined that this fiend would dare come to Beijing—let alone to the Legation Quarter!

The foreigners looked uneasy, and Yang Xiaolin was pleased with their expressions. “Please, do not worry. I am not as cold-blooded as the Russians claim. In fact, I am a lover of peace and friendship. Tonight, I am here to make friends. I cordially invite you all to be my guests in Western Liaoning. I hope you won’t refuse. Now, those whose names I call, please step forward. Let’s cooperate—I’m sure we’ll all have an enjoyable evening.”

“Why should we listen to a mere Qing subject?” a Frenchman shouted. “Don’t step forward, anyone!”

Yang Xiaolin glanced at him and nodded to Biaozi, who had come in with him. With a swift motion, Biaozi stabbed the man in the heart.

The hall erupted in screams. Yang Xiaolin shouted into the microphone, “Silence! Silence! I’ll say this only once more. This is a robbery. I ask for your full cooperation—keep calm and maintain order!” He spoke as if he were a policeman warning a group of unruly youths in a bar.

The commotion died away at once. Yang Xiaolin nodded. “Now, does anyone still wish to know why you must obey me?”