Hills of Han 30

Hills of Han 30

Kang, it appeared, was openly backing the Lookers now. His yamen

enclosure swarmed with ragged soldiers from the West who foraged among

the shops for food and trinkets, and beat or shot the inoffensive

Chinese merchants by way of emphasizing rather casually their privileged

status in the capital city. Down the river, near Hung Chan, a more

considerable concentration of the strange troops was taking place.

Hung Chan was also the rendezvous for the local young men who had

been initiated into the Looker bands. Rumors were flying of a general

massacre to come of the white and secondary (or native) Christians.

There was even talk of a political alliance with the organizers of

rebellion in the South against the Imperial Manchu Government and of

a triumphant march to the coast. A phrase that might be translated as

“China for the Chinese” had come into circulation.

 

Brachey grew more and more thoughtful as he listened.

 

“If Pao is so strong, why does he permit matters to go so far?” he

asked.

 

Mr. Po laughed. “His Excellency will in his own good time get move on

himself.”

 

“Hmm!”

 

“Only yesterday I myself was pinched on street by Western soldiers.”

 

“Pinched?”

 

“Seized and arrested. Taken up.”

 

Brachey raised his eyebrows; but Mr Po smiled easily on.

 

“Oh, yes! They called me secondary Christian. They ran me in before

low woman, a courtesan. They have told Kang that this courtesan is

second-sighted.”

 

“Clairvoyant?”

 

“Yes, that is now firm belief of Kang on mere say-so of cheap skates.

This courtesan has been conveyed to treasurer’s yamen where with eunuchs

and concubines to attend and soldiers to stand sentry-go she now holds

forth to beat the Dutch. All perfectly absurd!”

 

“And this creature sat in judgment over you?”

 

“Oh, yes! Not a day since.”

 

“What was her decision?”

 

Again that easy laugh. “Oh, she decree that I am to kick bucket.”

 

“Execute you, eh? You take it lightly.”

 

“It is nothing. I will tell you. In companionship with me was my bosom

friend, Chili T’ang, who is third son of well-known censor of

Peking, Chili Chang Pu. It was Chih who got hustle on to yamen of His

Excellency--”

 

“By His Excellency you mean Pao?”

 

“In every instance, if you please! Well, like a shot His Excellency

acted in my behalf. In person and with full retinue grandeur panoply he

set forth to pay visit to old rascal Kang, carrying as gift of utmost

personal esteem ancient ring for thumb of jade that Kang had long made

goo-goo eyes at. And he asked of Kang as favor mark to himself that he

be let known instanter, right away, if any of soldiers from his yamen

should behave with unpleasantness toward new soldiers of Kang, for

new soldiers of Kang had come to T’ainan-fu out of far country and not

unnaturally felt homesick and were not in each instance in step with

customs of our city. And he made explanation as well that he would

instruct his secretary, Po Sui-an, to bring news quicker than Johnny get

your gun if his own soldiers should act up freshly or become stench in

the nostrils.... Well, you see, sir?”

 

“Not quite.”

 

“But I am Po Sui-an! It was rebuke like ton of brick, falling on all

but face of old Kang. It has been insisted to me that Kang trembled like

swaying aspen reed as he made high sign to attendant mandarins. And then

His Excellency set forth that I had just stepped out on brief journey

but would shortly be back and that he would then instruct me with

determined vigor.... Such is His Excellency, a statesman of stiff upper

lip. A most wise guy! Thus he served notice on that old reprobate that

he will strike when iron is hot.”

 

“They released you?”

 

“At once. On return of His Excellency, to his yamen. There was I, slick

as whistle!”,

 

“Very interesting. But if Kang continues to bring in soldiers from the

West, how is Pao going to strike with any hope of success? Is he, too,

marshaling an army?”

 

“Oh, no! But you see, I come to call upon you, with you I walk freely

about streets. At Kang I thumb my nose and tell him go chase himself.

Pao will protect myself and you.”

 

“But as I understand it, Kang officially ranks Pao.”

 

“Oh, yes! But that is nothing.”

 

“It looks like a little something to me.”

 

“Oh, no! I will ask you for brief moment to glance sidelong at Forbidden

City of Peking. There during long devil of a while Eastern Empress

officially ranked Western Empress, but I would call your attention to

insignificant matter that it was not Western Empress--she whom you dub

Empress Dowager--that turned up her toes most opportunely to daisies.”

 

“Oh, I see! Then it is believed that the Empress Dowager had the Eastern

Empress killed?”

 

“You could not ask that she neglect wholly her fences.”.

 

“No.... no, I suppose you couldn’t ask that.”

 

“She is great woman. She will not permit that another person put her

on the blink. It is so with His Excellency. A dam’ big man! We shall

see!”... He hesitated, smiling a thought more eagerly than before.

They had reached the gate of the inn compound. His quick eye had caught

increasing signs of preoccupation in Brachey’s manner. Finally, laughing

again, he said:

 

“‘There is one other little bagatelle. An utter absurdity! I have made

preparation for lecture in English about China. Name of it is ‘Pigtail

and Chop-stick.’ When I read it at college I must say they held sides

and shook like jelly bowl. On that occasion it was made plain to me by

men of thought that it is peach of a lecture. It’s a scream.” His laugh

indicated now an apologetic self-consciousness. “It was said that in

America my lecture would be knockout, that Chinaman treading with

humor the lyceum would make novelty excitement. Indeed, by gentleman

of Customs Administration this was handed me....” He fumbled inside his

gown, finally producing a frayed bit of ruled paper, evidently torn from

a pocket note-book, on which was written in pencil: “Try the J. B. Pond

Lyceum Bureau, New York City.”

 

“Since it was expressed to me,” he hurried to add, “that American

journalist notability was in our midst, I have amused myself with fool

thought that you would run eyes over it and let me have worst of it.”

 

“It would be a pleasure,” said Brachey, civilly enough but with

considerable dismissive force, extending his hand.

 

So, Mr. Po, smiling but something crestfallen, sauntered away.

 

2

 

At ten o’clock that night Brachey sat in the angular chair, his _Bible

in Spain_ lying open on his knees, his weary face deeply shadowed and

yellow-gray in the flickering light of the native lamp on the table

beside him.

 

John tapped at the door; came softly in; stood, holding the door to

behind him.

 

“Well?” cried Brachey irritably. “Well?”

 

“Man wanchee see you. Can do?”

 

“Man?... What man?”

 

“No savvy.”

 

“China man?”

 

“No China man. White man. Too big.”

 

Brachey sprang up; dropped his book on the table with a bang; brushed

John aside and opened the door. The only light out there came slanting

down from a brilliant moon. Dimly outlined as shadowy masses were the

now familiar objects of the inn courtyard--the row of pack-saddles over

by the stable, the darkly moving heads of the horses ami mules behind

the long manger, the two millstones on their rough standard; above these

the roofs of curving tile and a glimpse of young foliage. Then, after a

moment, he sensed movement and peered across, beyond the stable, toward

the street gates. A man was approaching; a huge figure of a man, six

feet five or six inches in height, broad of shoulder, firm of tread;

stood now before him. He carried something like a soldier’s pack on his

back.

 

“Why did you come here?”

 

Brachey on the door-step found his eyes level with those of his caller.

 

“Mr. Brachcy?” The voice had the ring of power in it. Brachey’s nerves

tightened.

 

“Yes.”

 

“I am Mr. Doane.”

 

“Will you please come in?”

 

John slipped away. Doane entered; moved to the table; turned. Brachey

closed the door and faced him.

 

“You will perhaps wish to take off your pack,” he said, with bare

civility.

 

Doane disposed of this remark with a jerk of his head. “I have very

little time to waste on you,” he said bruskly. “What are you doing in

T’ainan? Why did you come here?”

 

[Illustration: 0231]