The Fall of the Heavenly Emperor

A British scout from the Ever Victorious army meets the Emperor of the Heavenly Kingdom

The morning light filtering through the latticed windows of Tianjing’s grand audience hall was thin and uncertain, diffused by smoke from the city beyond. The sound of distant cannon fire came like the beating of a faraway drum, dull and persistent. Inside, the air smelled faintly of incense and sweat.

“So, my captive ocean devil, how are you this morning?” asked Hong Xiuquan, the self-proclaimed Heavenly King and Son of God, from the dais of his golden throne.

The British prisoner before him, Major Jones, stood upright despite the weakness in his limbs. His blue-and-khaki jacket was stained with tea, mud, and blood. Torn grey trousers clung to his lean frame, and his high leather boots were cracked and dry with dust. The empty holster at his belt flapped faintly as he breathed.

Around him, the Heavenly Kingdom’s guards stood stiffly in formation. Their once-bright crimson jackets, modeled after Western uniforms, were now faded and patched. The men’s faces were gaunt, their cheeks hollowed by hunger, but they kept their backs straight and their muskets polished. To falter before the Heavenly King was to invite death.

Above them, red lacquered pillars reached up to a ceiling painted with phoenixes and white doves flying through clouds, symbols of divine purity now dulled by soot. The scent of decay from the city seeped even here, beneath the banners that proclaimed Worship Heaven Alone.

Hong Xiuquan sat robed in imperial yellow silk, embroidered with crosses and snippets of Chinese scripture stitched in gold. Upon his head rested a heavy crown of jade and gilt, beautiful, but weighing upon him like guilt. His eyes, once sharp with zeal, had dulled into a restless, searching light.

Major Jones bowed slightly, speaking in careful, fluent Chinese.

“Your Majesty, Emperor of the Heavenly Kingdom, it is my honor to be in your presence. I am your captive, but I have not been mistreated.”

A rustle moved through the guards. The omission was grave. He had failed to proclaim the Emperor’s divine sonship. Two soldiers stepped forward, hands on their sword hilts.

Hong raised a languid hand.

“We have decided,” he said softly, “to be tolerant of this foreign devil. For we found a Bible in his pack.”

The soldiers froze, then stepped back, their heads bowed.

Hong’s lips twitched in what might have been amusement, or perhaps exhaustion. “It will amuse me,” he continued, “to speak with you about the God you worship.”

The audience hall emptied. The Heavenly King descended from his throne, his silk robes whispering across the marble floor. He moved through a corridor lined with banners embroidered in scarlet: Worship Heaven Alone, The Kingdom of Righteousness Shall Prevail, The Devil Qing Shall Fall.

Outside, beyond the carved wooden screens, peasants crowded the outer courtyards. Their faces were grey with dust and fear. Mothers held thin children, their eyes too large for their faces. They looked up toward the palace roofs where the banners waved, whispering among themselves.

“He says Heaven will provide,” one old man murmured.
“Then why do we starve?” another replied.

But they kept their voices low. To speak against the Heavenly King was death, and even now, with the Qing armies tightening their noose around the city, the palace guards still carried out his decrees.

The soldiers patrolling the courtyard marched stiffly, their rifles gleaming though their stomachs were empty. Discipline, they told themselves, was a kind of prayer, a way to prove their faith still had meaning.

Hong entered a quieter room, lined with shelves heavy with scrolls and foreign books. Dust motes swam in the shafts of light from the high window.

At the center stood a broad oak desk, its surface cluttered with maps, brushes, and an open copy of the Taiping Bible, his translation of Scripture into Chinese, bound in red leather.

Shi Dakai, the Wing King, entered behind him, tall, hawk-faced, his eyes shadowed with sleeplessness. Two guards escorted Major Jones, whose wrists were bound loosely with silk cord.

Hong gestured to a chair. “Sit,” he said. The guards took their places, one behind the prisoner, one near Shi Dakai.

“My advisors tell me your name is Major Jones,” Hong began. “You and your general, Charles Gordon, are Christians, yet you fight for the demon empire of the Qing. You once fought for British traders who filled my country with opium. How do you reconcile this with your faith? Tell me the story of how you came here.”

Jones looked up at him calmly.

“At sixteen a man took me from the orphanage where I grew up and gave me a home. That Colonel is the reason I joined the British army, he himself told me that even though many of the orders we follow may not make sense to us, that the Empire for which we fought was an agent of Christian civilization. It is those words that got me through the Crimean war where my nation defended a corrupt Muslim Empire against another Christian nation and then in the China war against the decadent Qing and now I fight for General Gordon. The Qing are devils, I saw their mandarins bleed the peasants dry. I saw the starving. I thought at first your rebellion might be righteous, a purging fire.”

He paused. His Chinese was careful but fluent.

“But my duty is to my Queen and country, and my service to God. I cannot choose my wars, only how I conduct myself in them.”

Hong’s smile was faint but tight.

“You understand much,” he said softly. “I, too, once sought to serve the empire through study and examination. But corruption blocked me. Then Shangdi, the Heavenly Father, appeared in light. He called me His Son, gave me a sword and seal, and commanded me to rid China of demons. That is my heavenly mandate. And yet, you fight me.”

He rose, pacing slowly. His voice grew louder, filled with the rhythm of his old sermons.

“Have I not destroyed idols? Freed women from bondage? Forbade footbinding and polygamy? Gave land to the peasants and punished corruption? Look at my laws, do they not reflect Heaven’s will? I have done what no emperor before me dared! Why then do you oppose me?”

Jones’s face remained steady. He spoke with quiet force.

“Because, Your Majesty, the Scriptures you have translated say there is only one Son of God, Jesus Christ. He has no equal, no brother. The truth of the Trinity allows no division. You have mistaken your visions for revelation.”

A hiss of metal, a guard half drew his sword, but Hong lifted his hand to stop him.

Jones pressed on. His voice grew firmer.

“I have seen your armies’ work. Villages burned, temples plundered, women violated. You forbid such acts, I believe that. But they happen in your name. You preach purity, yet you keep a harem. You speak of peace, but you have drowned this land in blood. You call yourself the Son of God, but where are your miracles? You repeat the words of Christ, yet you have not lived them.”

He looked directly at the Heavenly King.

“You are a man, not a god. Repent, before it is too late. You are losing this war, and your people starve.”

Silence. The chamber held its breath.

Hong stared at the soldier, his expression unreadable. At last, he waved a hand.

“Take him away.”

The guards led Major Jones out. The door closed softly behind them.

Hong remained seated, motionless. The air was still except for the faint sound of cannon fire echoing across the river.

The foreigner’s words clung to him like thorns.
You are a man, not a god.

He rose, walking slowly to the window. From there, he could see the city’s rooftops, tiled and sagging, their alleys filled with smoke. Beyond the walls, fields once golden with rice were now brown and barren. His Heavenly Kingdom, Heaven on Earth, was crumbling.

He pressed his forehead to the glass.
Had not God chosen him?
He had seen the vision, the man in the black dragon robe, the beard of gold.
Had he lied to himself?

Fatigue washed over him. He sank into his chair and closed his eyes.

Then the vision came.

He saw a great table stretching across the land, filled with his people. Upon their plates lay heaps of green weeds, glistening as though with divine dew. They ate and laughed, radiant with health and joy.

He gasped, light flooding his mind. A miracle! Heaven’s provision!

He rang a bell. A young attendant entered, pale and trembling.

“Gather weeds from the gardens,” Hong commanded. “Boil them into soup for the people. The Heavenly Father provides even in famine.”

The attendant bowed and fled.

Outside, word spread quickly. Peasants scoured the gardens, tearing up every weed and wild leaf they could find. The palace cooks boiled them into a dark, bitter broth and served it in great earthen bowls.

That night, Hong Xiuquan ate the soup himself. The taste was sharp and grassy. He swallowed it as an act of faith, certain Heaven had spoken.

But within hours, pain coiled in his stomach like fire. He collapsed upon his bed, his body burning with fever.

The chamber filled with whispers. His wives and attendants hovered helplessly, afraid to touch him. Shi Dakai came once, bowed low, and left without speaking.

Alone in the dark, the Heavenly King shivered. The air seemed thick with unseen voices, the cries of the dead, the weeping of the starving.

He thought of Major Jones, the calm, unshaken gaze, the quiet faith. That peace was not born of thrones or armies. It was something deeper, untouchable.

If I were truly the Son of God, he thought, could I not heal myself?

Memories crowded his mind: the failed exams, the humiliations, the fever that first brought his visions. The promise of Heaven’s favor had filled the emptiness of his life. But now that light seemed distant, almost mocking.

He reached for the open Bible at his bedside, its pages worn thin. His trembling fingers brushed a verse he had underlined years ago.

“For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son…”

Only begotten. Not one among many. One.

The words struck him like thunder.

Tears blurred his sight. He whispered into the silence:

“I have been proud. I have taken Your name in vain. I built a kingdom of corpses and called it Heaven. I claimed Your glory for myself.”

A spasm of pain twisted his body, but he forced out the words.

“There is only one Christ. Only one Lord. And I am not He.”

He folded his hands weakly upon his chest.

“Lord Jesus, I see now. I repent of my folly, my pride, my blasphemy. Save me, for I am lost.”

And as he prayed, the fever broke for a moment. A warmth spread through him, not the fire of sickness, but a gentler heat, like sunlight through a storm.

A faint smile touched his lips. His breathing slowed.

When dawn came, the silk curtains stirred in the soft wind, and the Heavenly King lay still.

Outside, the palace was quiet. The banners hung limp. The starving soldiers stood at their posts, uncertain. Courtiers whispered in fear.

In the city below, peasants gathered in the streets, waiting for news. Some wept, some prayed, others simply stared at the palace where the self-proclaimed Son of God had died.

Rumors spread that he had ascended in light, taken up by angels. But in the stillness of his chamber, beside the empty bowl of weed soup and the open Bible, the truth remained.

A man who had called himself divine had died as a penitent sinner, his last words not of empire, but of grace.

1876