During the same week of mid-June 1863 in which Li Xiucheng helplessly watches so many of his men slaughtered on the north bank of the Yangzi, a thousand miles away in the province of Sichuan, Shi Dakai—the Wing King—surrenders to the Qing. Since leaving Nanjing in 1857, Shi has conducted a ceaseless and exhausting campaign, across fifteen different provinces over a distance of more than six thousand miles, seeking first a permanent base, and then mere survival, while the number of his loyal troops slowly shrinks due to illness, death, or desertion. On June 13, cornered, helpless, and exhausted, Shi Dakai simply walks into the camp of the commanding Qing general and gives himself up, in the hopes that with his own life he can ransom the pardon of the two thousand veterans who have been with him all those years. He has prepared for this step by having his five wives commit suicide, and his infant children drowned, to save them from the inevitable shame and agony at the hands of the Qing troops. After six weeks of interrogation by the newly appointed governor-general, Luo Bingzhang—who so long before directed the defense of Changsha at which the West King lost his life—Shi is executed by slow dismemberment. His two thousand followers, who have been held under guard in a local temple complex, are massacred.1
News of Shi Dakai’s surrender has not yet reached Nanjing by July 1863, when the Heavenly King orders Li Xiucheng into battle once again, this time to shore up the defenses of Suzhou. Li has had a month to size up the situation in the Heavenly Capital, and before he leaves he offers to Hong Xiuquan what seems to him now the only feasible plan: to stockpile all available grain in Nanjing, along with weapons, ammunition, and gunpowder, so that it remains the Heavenly Capital in word and deed, and becomes a truly impregnable fortress, impervious to siege. Such a base might wear down the morale of Zeng Guofan, who is proving invincible to the west, and of Zeng’s rising protege Li Hongzhang, whose troops have been cooperating with the Westerners and performing ably in recapturing the area around Shanghai.2 But this plan, according to Li Xiucheng, is also ruined, this time by the greed of Hong Xiuquan’s relatives, who forbid any residents of Nanjing to buy grain until they have first bought permits, or to use the permits until they have bought passports—the money for all of which paperwork goes into the pockets of Hong’s staff—and even if people go through these procedures, and manage to find grain to buy, they are taxed according to its value when they return to Nanjing.3
The situation grows even graver in October 1863, when Qing troops, moving inexorably closer to the Heavenly Capital, seize hundreds of tons of stockpiled Taiping grain supplies, along with a thousand Taiping soldiers, their horses, and their mules.4 In November, the Qing commander orders a moat over ten miles in length dug around the southern perimeter of Nanjing, running from the Yangzi River past the city’s southern wall and curving up toward the east. Suzhou falls to the Qing in early December, just after Li Xiucheng has left it to campaign nearby. The city’s fall is marked by the Qing commander’s treacherous murder of all the surrendering Taiping generals, to whom he had promised amnesty, and the massacre of the civilian population. In mid-December, by which time Li Xiucheng has returned to supervise the capital’s defense, the Qing make their first assault on the walls of Nanjing, using deep tunnels filled with gunpowder that shatter a major section of the city walls, though Taiping troops are able to repel the Qing troops that try to force their way through the breach.5
By December 1863 Li Xiucheng, having surveyed all the options, can see no way of defending the city. Gathering his courage to address the ruler who still overawes him, Li reports, “The supply routes are cut and the gates blocked. In the capital the morale of the people is not steady. There are many old people and children but no fighting troops. There are many court officials and civil officials, many people who expend food and supplies. . . . The capital cannot be defended. It is closely besieged by General Zeng’s troops, with deep moats and strong forts. There is no grain or fodder in the city, and no relief comes from outside. We should give up the city and go elsewhere.”6
Four scenes of Qing victories over the Taiping. These paintings, honoring the victories of Zeng Guofan and his armies, are from a set of twelve made soon after the suppression of the Taiping. The four chosen here each illustrate different campaigns: the Qing victory at Yozhou on Dongting lake in Hunan, on July 25, 1854, which saved Changsha; the battle of Tongcheng in October 1855, which checked the last Taiping attempt to seize Hunan; the Qing recapture of Wuchang on December 19, 1856; and lastly, the Qing troops who captured Hong Xiuquan’s eldest son Tiangui Fu in October, 1864, bringing an end to the short-lived Hong dynasty. Credit: National Palace Museum, Taipei, Taiwan, Republic of China.
Hong’s answer to General Li is at once evasive and sublimely confident:
I have received the sacred command of God, the sacred command of the Heavenly Brother Jesus, to come down into the world to become the only true Sovereign of the myriad countries under Heaven. Why should I fear anything? There is no need for you to petition and no need for you to take charge of the administration. You can do as you like; remain in the capital or go away. If you do not serve in [my] invincible Kingdom there are those who will. You say that there are no troops; but my Heavenly soldiers are as limitless as water. Why should I fear the demon Zeng? You are afraid of death and so you may well die. State matters are nothing to do with you.7
General Li, though he remains loyal to the Heavenly King, has grown suspicious of this kind of language. It seems to him to have disturbing connotations in the military sphere, and to exacerbate a problem that has been growing steadily ever since Hong Xiuquan ordered his troops and followers to drop the name Taiping, and instead to use the one word “Heavenly,” to pay proper homage to God the Father. As Li later phrases his unease:
The Heavenly King always used heavenly words to admonish people. We, his officials, did not dare to challenge him, but let him give what names he wanted. Calling them “Heavenly Dynasty, Heavenly Army, Heavenly Officials, Heavenly People, Heavenly Commanders, Heavenly Soldiers and Royal Troops” made them all into his personal troops and stopped us from calling them our troops. Anyone who spoke of “my troops” or “my soldiers” would be reprimanded thus: “You have treacherous intentions! This is the Heavenly Army; there are Heavenly Officials, Heavenly Troops, and this is the Heavenly Kingdom. How can they be your troops?” If one did not call them “Heavenly Soldiers, Heavenly Kingdom and Heavenly Officials” he was afraid that people were going to take his Kingdom from him.8
There are still enormous Taiping armies campaigning south of the Heavenly Capital, but slowly the Qing drive wedges of their own forces between those troops and the Heavenly King. Hong Rengan, the Shield King, is sent out in early 1864 on a mission to the region around Lake Tai, to gather supplies and “urge upon the troops the necessity of hastening to the relief of the capital,” but he finds few willing to follow him, despite his kingly rank and fame: “the Heavenly Troops were fearful of the lack of provisions, and the greater part of them would not respond to the call.”9 By spring, the Qing troops are massed around Nanjing in such force that Hong Rengan is unable to return to his Heavenly King, and has to make his own base in the city of Huzhou, south of the lake, two hundred miles from Nanjing.10
Li Xiucheng makes yet another bold foray out of the Heavenly Capital in January 1864, and tries to reopen a route for supplies by breaking the Qing siege of the grain distribution center at Changzhou.11 Failing in that design, he develops a new strategic plan, ordering four route armies under separate Taiping commanders to move south into Jiangxi province and obtain grain supplies there. Though these armies fight effectively enough to cause a diversion to the Qing, they cannot stop the steady forward advance of Zeng Guoquan, backed by foreign forces with their armored and shallow-draft steamships, from slowly driving the Taiping out of city after city. The last large grain shipment gathered by the Taiping foragers—more than thirty thousand pounds in weight—is seized by Qing forces within sight of the Heavenly Capital’s walls in late February 1864, and in the next three months the remaining supply depots that might have been able to help Nanjing are lost in turn.12
One by one, the Qing armies have captured every strategic hill around Nanjing, and despite fiercely fought sorties by Li and other Taiping generals, the hills cannot be recaptured. The Qing have also completely surrounded Nanjing with a double line of breastworks, which snake across the country, three hundred yards apart. The breastworks are bolstered by about 120 forts, spaced at quarter- to half-mile intervals, each fort garrisoned with its own force of Qing troops.13 No one can now leave Nanjing, save for occasional Taiping soldiers scavenging for edible weeds, who are let down from the city walls on ropes to make their meager harvest, often under the indifferent eyes of the Qing besiegers, or small groups of fugitives from the city, who risk their lives to flee across the no-man’s land to the shelter that—as a propaganda gesture—has been promised by Zeng Guoquan to women and children who manage to escape. With the desperation of the poor who tyrannize the poor, gangs inside the city watch at the city’s gates, not to stop but to rob those who are trying to flee of their possessions, before releasing them to their uncertain fate.14 The women who make it through the lines are placed in special stockades by the Qing commanders, where, Gordon observes, the “country people . . . take as wives any who so desired.”15
No one can come or go by river either, for not only are the flats between the city walls and the river patrolled and guarded, but all foreign merchants have been forbidden by their governments to send supplies by boat to the beleaguered city, and only a handful of the most reckless foreigners risk the heavily armed Qing patrols to bring in supplies of food. Running in loads of rice, cooking oil, and charcoal to Nanjing from either Hankou or Shanghai is now as profitable as selling guns and ammunition for the latest generation of Western drifters. A foreign ship that is known to have made such runs successfully becomes in turn a sure mark for other water-borne Western desperadoes, who might board the vessel, kill the crew, and take the accumulated piles of silver.16
Edging ever closer to the capital’s huge walls, much of the war moves underground, as the Qing commander orders his men to dig tunnel after tunnel, while the Taiping countertunnel in their turn, filling the Qing tunnels with water and sewage, or battling hand to hand, only to be driven out in turn by clouds of poisonous smoke forced into the tunnels’ openings by Qing troops with bellows. By the late spring of 1864, over thirty tunnels have been started or are near completion. Some are on a truly massive scale, as observed by Charles Gordon on a visit to the Qing defensive perimeter:
We went down to the mines and found a gallery driven a hundred and fifty yards fifteen feet below the ground, four to five feet wide and about seven feet high; it then divided into branches twenty yards from the wall, and had small shafts at intervals for ventilation. The gallery was framed with wooden supports and brushwood, some fifteen feet being driven each day.17
The longer tunnels can be easily seen by Taiping observers on the city walls, either because the vegetation above them dies, or because there is no way for the Qing to hide the excavated earth. But the Qing drive their encircling earthworks ever nearer to the walls, closing in to a distance of less than thirty yards in some places, from where they can direct a murderous fire from massed cannon at any Taiping defenders who try to interrupt the tunnelers’ work.18
In the spring of 1864 General Li Xiucheng, according to his own account, tells Hong Xiuquan, “There is no food in the whole city and many men and women are dying. I request a directive as to what should be done to put the people’s mind at ease.” But starvation stirs no fears in the Heavenly King. He has read the sixteenth chapter of Exodus with care, and knows God will preserve the Taiping faithful, just as He preserved the children of Israel for forty years in the wilderness of Sinai, by scattering manna on the ground amidst the dew each morning. Since at least 1862, Hong has been ordering his subjects to emulate the children of Israel and store ten bushels of manna every year to see them through their times of trouble. Though it is not exactly clear what manna is—the Bible says it is small and white, with a scent of coriander and a taste like honey (Exodus 16:31)—the two phrases used in the Chinese Taiping Bible to describe it are Tianlu and Ganlu, one of which means simply “sweetened dew” and the other a kind of medicinal herb.19 Hong Xiuquan replies to Li, “Everyone in the city should eat manna. This will keep them alive,” and issues the order: “Bring some here, and after preparing it I shall partake of some first.” When no one knows how to respond to this command, “the Sovereign himself,” in the words of General Li, “in the open spaces of his palace, collected all sorts of weeds, which he made into a lump and sent out of the palace, demanding that everyone do likewise, without defaulting. He issued an edict ordering the people to act accordingly and everyone would have enough to eat.”20 Thereupon the Heavenly King begins to eat the clotted weeds within his palace.
Hong Xiuquan falls ill in April 1864, a few months after his fiftieth birthday. He rallies in May, but soon is sick again. The nature of the sickness is not clear. General Li Xiucheng, not surprisingly, says it comes from “eating manna” and because “when this man was ill he would not take remedies.” His cousin Hong Rengan says it was “a lingering illness of twenty days.” His son Tiangui Fu merely says his father “succumbed to sickness.”21 In a decree of May 30, Hong Xiuquan—or someone in his name—announces that the time has come for him to visit Heaven and request that his Heavenly Father and Heavenly Elder Brother send a celestial army to defend the capital.22
There is no great fanfare at Hong’s death, which comes quietly on June 1, 1864. He is wrapped in a simple shroud of yellow silk by one of the palace women and buried in the bare ground, as he has taught the Taiping to do with their dead. No coffins are needed when one will rise so soon to Heaven. Hong indeed has long before ordered that coffins be abandoned and that the word for “death” be tabooed amongst his followers, who should use instead the phrase “ascend to Heaven” or “find one’s happiness.”23
Five days after his father’s death Hong’s son, the Young Monarch, Tiangui Fu, takes his seat upon his father’s throne; his Taiping ministers, having first prayed to God, then pay homage to him as their new king. While the Qing carefully plan their final assault, the Young Monarch has his six-week reign. As he recalls, “Court matters were under the control of the Shield King, and military affairs in the hands of the Loyal King. All decrees which were issued were drawn up by [these two], and I was directed to subscribe my name to them.”24 Yet given Shield King Hong Rengan’s continuing absence in Huzhou, to the south, the Young Monarch is essentially in the hands of his Loyal King, Li Xiucheng. “After the Young Sovereign came to the throne,” says Li, “there was no grain for the soldiers, and there was chaos in the armies. . . . The Sovereign was young and had no ability to make decisions,” and as a result “no one, civil or military, in the capital, could think of a solution.”25
It is noon on July 19, 1864, when the Qing general Zeng Guoquan gives the signal to fire the explosives in the tunnels under a section of the eastern wall of Nanjing. The force of the colossal explosion hurls sixty yards of the massive fabric into the air. The Qing troops pouring through the breach are checked briefly by the Taiping, but soon all is chaos, retreat, and slaughter. At first the Young Monarch stands bewildered in his palace, while his four young wives cling to him to stop him from fleeing. But breaking away from them he runs through the crowds with his two young brothers to the Loyal King’s palace. With what horses they can muster, and bodyguards clustered around them, the four try to escape the city through different gates in turn, but are always turned back. Hiding out for a time in an abandoned temple on the western side of the city, perched on a hill from which they can see the movements of the Qing forces within the town, the members of the Taiping royal party don Qing army uniforms prepared for this emergency; and seizing a moment in the gathering darkness when the Qing forces are fully occupied with rape and looting, or with setting fires to cover up the looting that has already taken place, they break through a gap in the wall near the eastern gate and race for safety. In the chaos the two young brothers of Tiangui Fu are left behind, and meet their deaths among the ten to twenty thousand victims of the night.26
As the rest of the group rides rapidly to the south, away from the burning city, the horse of the Loyal King, Li Xiucheng, collapses, and the others gallop on without him. Exhausted and bewildered, Li climbs a hill at dawn and shelters in an abandoned temple, where he falls asleep. He wakes to find that peasants from a nearby village have robbed him of his hidden valuables; soon after, others, angry at his inability to buy them off, turn him over to the Qing. He is interrogated, writes a lengthy confession, and is executed. Before he dies, he begs the senior Qing officials to stop the slaughter in Nanjing, and to spare the old Taiping veterans from Guangxi and Guangdong, to give them permission to return home and “engage in some trade.” “If you are willing to spare them,” Li points out to his interrogators, “everyone will hear of it, and everyone will be willing to submit.”27
Li Xiucheng also has advice for his captors: buy the best cannon from the foreigners, and the most efficient type of gun carriages—for one is useless without the other—and then find the finest Chinese craftsmen and have them make exact replicas, while teaching others how to do the same. Thus “one craftsman can teach ten, ten can teach a hundred and everyone in our country will know. . . . To fight with the foreign devils the first thing is to buy cannon and get prepared early. It is certain that there will be a war with them.”28 As to the Taiping’s role in the future, it is over: “Our Heavenly Kingdom is finished . . . and this is because the former Heavenly King’s span was ended. The fate of the people was hard, such a hard fate!” How then could he himself, Li asks rhetorically, have helped his Heavenly King so long, and so tenaciously? His confession breaks off in the middle of his answer: “It is really because I did not understand. If I had understood . . .”29
Li Xiucheng, upon his capture, thinks the Young Monarch must be already dead. But in fact Tiangui Fu is safe, and still accompanied by around a hundred followers. Circling around the west shore of Lake Tai, they reach Huzhou, where the Shield King, Hong Rengan, commands a large but isolated Taiping garrison.30 Huzhou is almost ringed by hostile troops, those of the Qing army commanded by Li Hongzhang, and a strong force known as the Ever-Triumphant Army, a mixed band of Chinese and Filipino mercenaries, commanded by French officers. This force has been so named in deliberate emulation of and rivalry to the Ever-Victorious Army, commanded in the region of Shanghai first by the American mercenary Frederick Ward, and after his death in combat in 1862 by the British officer Charles Gordon. Side by side with the French and Qing combatants, some former Taiping generals are also fighting. They are defectors, having chosen to support at last the dynasty they so long opposed, and thus gain official titles, a chance to keep their accumulated loot, play at cards, and smoke their opium in peace. To the surprise of the French officers, the most able of these defected Taiping generals still holds it to be an “incontestable truth” that Hong Xiuquan was “raised to heaven for forty days and that he had received there the instructions necessary to begin his mission.”31
The atmosphere in Huzhou is harsh and uneasy. The handful of foreign mercenaries still there fighting—with various degrees of willingness—for the Taiping see scores of executions every day, often for the most trivial causes, while Chinese suspected of treason are tied to piles of brushwood and set afire. The roads leading to the city have been strewn with the bodies of dismembered dead, to warn the Qing, the French, and the Taiping renegades of their fate if they are caught. Two of the French commanders have already died, though not at Taiping hands—one blown to pieces by a faulty cannon seized from a captured Taiping town, and another shot in the back of the head by his own troops, whether on purpose or by accident none can say. Other French officers, calling their assembled troops to charge the Taiping entrenchments, and rushing out ahead with sabers drawn to set a fine example, realize too late that none of their men have followed them, and are seized and cut to pieces by the Taiping troops.32
One of the mercenaries inside Huzhou is an Englishman called Patrick Nellis, who commands a small band of Westerners—Irish and English, Greek and Austrian, French and German. After listening with half an ear to an hour-long sermon by the Shield King, Hong Rengan, of which he hardly understands a word, Nellis is startled after the service to be addressed by Hong Rengan himself. Hong, speaking “in English, very slow,” asks Nellis his nationality. When Nellis replies that he is English, Hong Rengan, reflecting the years of disappointment since he left Hong Kong, says that “he had never met a good foreigner.” Yet Hong nevertheless tells Nellis that he will soon be leaving Huzhou for the south, and asks him to come along, since Nellis is skilled at both artillery and rifle fire. In the event, they do not travel together, nor does Nellis ever see the Young Monarch, Tiangui Fu. No one dares talk of the kingdom’s new ruler, nor of what has just happened in the Heavenly Capital: as Nellis explains, “The Rebels said nothing about Nanking; and in fact all conversation of that sort was most dangerous, for the small boys in the service of the Wangs [Taiping kings] were nothing but spies, and any talk of the sort was certain death.”33
Apart from such mercenaries as Nellis, the British are less involved in the war than once they were. Though for a time they abandoned their neutrality and unabashedly fought beside the Qing, in the spring of 1864 their government decides that British officers should not, after all, fight in the lines on behalf of China, and the Ever-Victorious Army, which had effectively come under their command, is ordered disbanded.34 Relieved of their most urgent duties, the British troops, as they await the news of the final destruction of the Taiping forces, while away their time with games. They sprint, they jump, they put the thirty-two pound shot, they leap the hurdles, they throw the cricket ball for distance, they hop with sacks around their legs, they run three-legged races, and try to cross the city moat on tightropes. Most popular of all, to the spectators, is the wheelbarrow race, run blindfold over a seventy-five-yard course. The collisions, spills, and falls are always fun to watch, but the onlookers’ joy is greatest when one man with his barrow turns clear around and races off alone across the field.35
The French forces, however, are still actively in the fray, and eager to best their foreign rivals. They fight their way forward in the blinding heat, as the siege is tightened around the fugitive kings in the city of Huzhou. Even the veterans of China service have known no heat like this in their past experience, and deaths by sunstroke fell some, while others succumb to the cholera that spreads among all armies from the piles of unburied corpses along the lanes of towns and on the country roads.36 The French officers swiftly learn that the cholera victims treated in the Western way, with brandy and camphor, often die; whereas when they use Chinese doctors, who treat the sufferers with acupuncture needles inserted into nose and lips, stomach and forehead, under the fingernails and in the leg joints, the illness is overcome.37
To keep their spirits up, the Frenchmen sing their songs from home, and drink champagne, which they chill in shaded pits filled with cold water brought from nearby wells and mountain springs.38 One dons his bathing clothes and swims in the warm canal, spanning the stream with a rough plank bridge when a Chinese woman refugee, abandoned on the farther bank, shows willingness to join him. Noting this shared moment, the French commander, on his next trip to a recently recaptured village, brings a whole group of women back to serve his troops.39 Some of the officers arrange to have a billiard table brought up to the front lines, and place it under the shaded awnings that shelter their redoubts, so they can play together while waiting for the battle.40 And those who wish to escape more deeply make their way at dusk to drink their absinthe in the spot they have named—using the slang picked up from the Arabs by the troops in North African campaigns—their “fountain of Maboul,” their fountain of craziness, their fountain of forgetting.41
The Qing, the French, and the Taiping renegades, with their modern arms and growing numbers, are too much for the Taiping defenders of Huzhou, and at the end of August 1864 Hong Rengan and the Young Monarch flee the city. They move ever farther down toward the south, drawn, it seems, back to the regions of Guangdong where their movement started. They survive another month on the run until October, when a sudden Qing raid on their camp forces them to separate. Hong Rengan is captured first, on October 9.42 In his interrogation by the local Qing officials, Hong Rengan reiterates his belief in the extraordinary powers of the Heavenly King. Hong Xiuquan “was nine years older than I,” he tells them, “and gifted with extraordinary powers of intelligence. A glance at anything was all that was required to impress the subject on his memory.”43 The rising at Thistle Mountain, says Hong Rengan, gives “undoubted evidence of the display of divine power throughout those years,” and despite the ultimate collapse of the Taiping movement, “among those who have enjoyed the smiles of fortune for the longest time the Heavenly King stands pre-eminently forward,” for he survived every one of the colleagues with whom he started out from Thistle Mountain. Hong Rengan is executed in the Jiangxi capital of Nanchang on November 23.44
When the Qing troops raid the camp and capture Hong Rengan, the Young Monarch, Tiangui Fu, manages to slip away with about ten followers. Crossing a small bridge, they climb a nearby hill and hide in a pit. The Young Monarch’s entourage is discovered by Qing soldiers and taken away, but somehow Tiangui Fu evades the searchers. For four days he hides out in the hills, frightened and alone, finally so paralyzed by hunger that he longs for death. Suddenly, either in vision or in reality, “a great tall man, his whole body white as snow,” gives him a piece of flat bread to eat, and vanishes. Restored to strength, Tiangui Fu shaves off his long Taiping tresses, and finds work for a few days with a local farmer, pretending that his name is Zhang and that he is from Hubei. When the harvest is all gathered in, he travels onward, until he is robbed of his remaining clothes by one man, and forced to carry loads of bamboo for another.45
Tiangui Fu is arrested at last by Qing patrols on October 25, 1864. He throws himself on the mercy of the state, and makes a brief confession. What he remembers of his father is briefly said: “The old Heavenly King told me to study religious books, and would not allow me to study ancient books, which he said were all demonic. I managed, however, to read secretly thirty or more volumes, and still retain some recollection of their subjects and contents.”46 Of the entire long war, and all its hopes, he tells his captors merely, “The conquest of the empire was the ambition of the old Heavenly King, and I had no part in it.” His own greatest ambition, he tells his interrogators, if they release him, is to study quietly at the Confucian classics and try to gain the lowest degree, that of licentiate.47 It would have taken judges with a true sardonic wit to reprieve the Young Monarch, and set him on the road to pass the examinations that his father always failed. There are none bold enough to take the chance, and on November 18, 1864, the Young Monarch is executed, a week before his fifteenth birthday.48
So by the year’s end of 1864, not only the Heavenly King is gone, but all the inner core of kings he built around himself have left this life: the Kings of the North and East, the South and West, the Wing King, Shield King, Loyal King, and Hong’s own son, the Young Monarch, Tiangui Fu. But if God, the Heavenly Father, is saddened at Hong’s passing, He gives no sign. Hong’s Elder Brother, Jesus, too, is mute. And even his Heavenly Mother, who cried out with such anguish at his birth, and fought to keep her infant from the seven-headed dragon’s jaws, stays silent in her realm.
In the boom towns they are creating, where the masts and smokestacks of the merchant ships now cluster thickly at the water’s edge, the Westerners proceed in whatever ways they choose. Some walk on tightropes. Some tie themselves to partners and lurch, three-legged, down the track. Some grip the handles of their barrows and—eyelashes pressed against the cloth of unfamiliar blindfolds—race through the cheering throngs in search of a finish line that they cannot see. And out beyond the walls, shielded by awnings from the sweltering sun, stand other men who chalk their cues and calculate the angles, waiting for the enemy to make his move. While their companions, wearied by the omnipresent smell of death, leave the encampment and walk to the beckoning fountain of Maboul. There, clasping the well-cooled glasses in their hands, they watch the glimmering of the Heavenly Army’s nighttime fires; and with ears lulled by the sounds of signal gongs and drums, they glide their way toward oblivion.
