Hills of Han 27

Hills of Han 27

And every quaint sight and sound was registered with a fresh vividness

on Doane’s highly strung nerves. He was tired; might easily, too easily,

become irritable; a fact he sensed and struggled to guard against. Now,

of all occasions in his life, he must exercise self-control. Difficult

tasks lay directly ahead. One would be the talk with Pao Ting Chuan

about the So T’ung massacre. Pao was, in his Oriental way, friendly; but

his way was Oriental. It would be necessary to meet him at every evasive

turn; necessary to read behind every courteous speech of a cultivated

and charming gentleman the complex motivation of a mandarin skilled

in the intricate relationships of the Court of Peking. Helping avert

trouble was one matter; Pao could doubtless, or apparently, be counted

on to that extent; but assuming full responsibility for the taking of

white life and the destruction of white man’s property, was a vastly

more complicated matter. No other sort of human creature is so skilful

at evading responsibility as the Chinaman; this, perhaps, because

responsibility, once accepted, is, under the Chinese tradition and

system, inescapable.... Another task, of course, would be the telling

Boatwright of his personal disaster. It still seemed better to do this

before the news could drift around in some vulgar, disruptive way from

Shanghai. He couldn’t plan this talk, not yet; but a way would doubtless

present itself. He stood before his God, in his own strong heart,

convicted of sin. There had been moments, during the tramp southward,

when he found himself welcoming this nearly public self-arraignment with

a bitter eagerness. But at such moments pictures of Betty rose in his

mind, and of the gentle beautiful wife of his youth--wistful, delicately

traced pictures.

 

His face would change then; the lines would deepen and a look of

torment, of wild hurt animal strength that was new, would appear in and

about his deep-shaded eyes.

 

2

 

As he drew near the mission compound his stride shortened and slowed.

Once he stopped, and for a brief bme stood motionless, not heeding the

curious Chinese who passed (dim figures with soft-padded shoes), his

lips drawn tightly together over nervous mutterings that nearly, once

or twice, came out as sounds. He was not a man who talks out overwrought

feelings on the public way. The tendency alarmed him.

 

He came deliberately into the gate house. Here, talking in some

excitement with old Sun, were four or five of the servants.

 

He paused to ask what was the matter. To take hold again, to step so

quickly into his position as head of the compound, brought a sense of

relief. That would be habit functioning. A moment later, his confusion

was deeper than before; in one of those quick flashes that can

illuminate and occupy the inner mind while the outer is engaged with the

brisk affairs of life, he was wondering how soon these men would know

what he was, what pitiful sort he had overnight become; and what they

would think of him, they who now obeyed and loved him.

 

‘They told him the gossip of the streets. Those strange soldiers,

Lookers, from beyond the western mountains, had been coming of late to

the yamen of old Kang Hsu. Kang, so ran the local story, had reviewed

these troops within the twelve hours, witnessing their incantations,

giving them his approval.

 

Doane said what little he could to quiet their fears; he even managed a

rather austere smile; then passed on into the courtyard.

 

Dr. Cassin came slowly down the steps from the dispensary, her

keys jingling in her hand. She was a spare, competent woman, deeply

consecrated to her work, but not lacking in kindliness.

 

“Oh, Mr. Doane!” she said. Then, “How did you find things at So T’ung?”

 

He stood a moment, looking at her.

 

“Very bad,” he said.

 

“Not--well--”

 

Doane inclined his head. “Yes, Jen is gone--and twelve to fifteen

others. Shot or burned. One helper escaped. I could get word of no

others. One of Monsieur Pourmont’s engineers helped very bravely in the

defense, but was finally clubbed to death.”

 

Dr. Cassin stood silent; then drew in her breath sharply. The keys

jingled.

 

“Oh!” she murmured in a broken voice, “That _is_ bad!”

 

“It couldn’t be worse. How is it here?”

 

“Well”--she pursed her lips--“I’m afraid we’ve all been getting a little

nervous. It’s well you’re back. We need you. The servants are

jumpy....”

 

“I gathered that, in the gate house.”

 

“I wonder... in the fighting at So T’ung there must have been a good

many wounded...

 

“Among the attackers, yes; the Lookers themselves, and village rowdies.”

 

“I was wondering... mightn’t it be a good thing for me to go up there

and take charge?”

 

“No.”

 

“For the effect it might have on the people, I mean. Wouldn’t it help

restore their confidence in us?”

 

“No, Doctor. The people--except the young men--haven’t changed. Trouble

will come wherever the Lookers go. No, your place is here.”

 

Once in the mission residence, Doane hurried up the two flights of

stairs to his own rooms. He met no one; the door of Boatwright’s study

was closed.

 

So they needed him. The strain was shaking their monde a little. It was

really not surprising, after 1900. But if they needed him it was no time

to indulge his own emotions. He would have to take hold again, that was

all; perhaps keep hold, letting the news that was to be to him so evil

come up as it might. He sighed as he closed his door. Some sort of a

scene there must be; at least a talk with the Boatwrights about So T’ung

and about the local problem.... One thing he could do; remove his dusty

clothing, wash, put on fresh things. It would help a little, just

the physical refreshment. He went back to the door and locked it.....

Boatwright would be up, almost certainly.

 

Very shortly came the familiar hesitant tapping. For years the little

man had made his presence known in that same faintly timid way. It was

irritating.... Doane called out that he would be down soon.

 

“Oh... all right... thank you!” Thus Boatwright, outside the door. And

then he moved slowly, uncertainly, down the stairs.

 

3

 

Boatwright was sitting idle at his desk, rolling a pencil about. It was

an old roll-top desk from Michigan via Shanghai. Doane closed the door,

quietly, and drew up a chair.

 

“You’d better read this.” Boatwright spread a telegram on the desk. “I

haven’t told the others. It came late this afternoon.”

 

The message was from Mrs. Nacy, acting dean of the little college at

Hung Chan.

 

“Several hundred Lookers”--it ran--“broke into compound this noon and

took all our food, slightly injuring cook and helper who resisted; they

order us to send all girl students home; remain at present carousing

near compound; very threatening; commander forbids any communication

with you as they seem to fear you and your influence at Judge’s yamen,

though boasting that Treasurer now rules province and that Judge will be

fortunate to escape with his life; wish greatly you could be here.”

 

Doane, sifting very quietly, shading his eyes with a powerful hand, read

the message twice; then asked, calmly:

 

“Have you notified Pao?”

 

“Not yet. Your message came several hours earlier. It seemed wise to

wait for yuu.”

 

Doane considered the matter; then reached for red paper, ink pot and

brush, and wrote, in Chinese, the equivalent of the following note:

 

“I beg to report that a band of Lookers at So T’ung, assisted by local

young men, killed Jen Ling Pu and about fourteen others, including white

engineer named Beggins from compound of Monsieur Pourmont at Ping Yang.

Considerable property destroyed. Several buildings burned to ground.

Further, to-day, comes a report of attack on the Mission College at

Hung Chan, with urgent appeal for help. I am going to Hung Chan at once,

to-night, and must beg of Your Excellency immediate support from local

officials and troops. I must further beg to advise Your Excellency that

I am reporting these unfortunate events to the American Minister at

Peking by telegraph to-night and to suggest that only the greatest

promptness and firmness on your part can now avert widespread trouble

which threatens to bow the head of China once more with shame in the

dust.

 

“James Griggsby Doane.”

 

He struck a bell then, and to the servant who entered gave instructions

regarding the etiquette to be observed in promptly delivering the note

at the yamen of the provincial judge.

 

“I am worried, I’ll admit, about Kang,” observed Boatwright, when the

servant had gone. He said this without looking up, rolling the pencil

back and forth, back and forth. His voice was light and husky.