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studying Chinese, several more hours working at the consulate and a few attempting to sleep. The mosquitoes made it impossible. He recalled Captain Patridge’s invitation and felt it was a good way to escape.
    On July fourth in 1855, he received a letter from his friend Wi lliam Lay in Shanghai informing Robert that he had been nominated to the position of provisional assistant in the consulate with a salary of 270 pounds a year, about twelve hundred Chinese yuan.
    Robert determined that whatever his income, one-tenth would go to charitable and religious purposes. It was his way to atone for what had happened between him and Me-ta-tae.
    He had now spent enough time in China to earn some vac ation time, so he left Ningpo during the hottest part of summer to stay with Captain Patridge not realizing how much that decision was going to change his life.
     
    Chapter 2
     
    When some of the men around the table laughed, it reminded Robert that Patridge’s stories had gone on for what felt like hours.
    “ We were scared for our lives,” Patridge said. “In 1842, I worked on a ship carrying opium along the coast of China. A monsoon struck, and my ship and another were wrecked on the island of Formosa. The crews consisted of 180 Bengalis and 13 white men. The natives captured us and immediately beheaded the Bengalis. I was terrified watching all those heads hit the ground with my hands tied behind my back.
    “ The thirteen of us that remained alive felt we were doomed until the ship’s carpenter had a great idea. He said we should kowtow to the governor of Formosa by standing on our heads.” He paused and looked around the table. “And we did.”
    “ Gentlemen, it worked. This governor was so impressed that he spared our lives and kept us in prison instead. Eventually we gained our freedom. I’m sitting here today telling you about the time I came a chop away from the grave.” He put his hands around his neck, stretched it and crossed his eyes.
    Robert had trouble believing the tale, so he allowed his mind to drift to other thoughts. He didn’t enjoy the stories.
    However, i f he had to put up with this to escape the isolation and stifling heat of Ningpo, he would. It was a small price to pay. On the other hand, if the story was true, he might be able to learn something. It wasn’t that important to listen though. Robert did not expect to be shipwrecked anytime soon.
    Patridge ’s house was on the western end of Zhoushan Island with the mainland about five miles away. It squatted on a hill close to a hundred feet above sea level. Robert wasn’t the only houseguest. The Maryann’s captain, a man named Roundtree, had come ashore too and was staying in the house with three of his officers.
    At dinner the night, Patridge, Captain Roundtree, his officers and Robert sat at a table on the veranda while concubines served food. The first course was a delicious soup made from lily flowers, black mushrooms and sea delicacies. Robert sipped from a glass of red wine and listened to the conversation instead of taking part.
    From the veranda, Robert saw the track they had used to reach the house. It looked like a brown string winding its way through thick stands of trees and checkered green farmlands toward the top of the hill. When typhoons roared in from the Pacific, raced across the East China Sea and slammed into the island, th e twenty miles of hills slowed the storm’s impact.
    Ningpo was about fifty miles to the south. Shanghai was a bit fa rther to the north. If you sailed west into the bay, you eventually reached the city of Hangzhou. Robert recalled a conversation he and Guan-jiah had. It took place during the trek to the house that morning with the others from the Maryann .
    “ Guan-jiah,” Robert said, “before I came to China I read The Travels of Marco Polo . Do you know of him?”
    “ No, Master,” Guan-jiah replied.
    “ He came to China from Europe more than six hundred years ago and served under Kublai Khan