Hills of Han 43
“But he gave me his word!”
“You really must let me tell this in my own way. He brought the news of
your death. He had it from Pao’s yamen. He demanded that we all leave
T’ainan at once, with him. If he gave you his word, it is probable that
he regarded your death as a release. Well....” For a moment she bent
silently over her task of bandaging.
“Yes. Tell me?” Doane’s voice was quieter still. More and more, to
Boatwright, who stood by the wash-stand lingering a towel, he looked,
felt, like the old Griggsby Doane... except his eyes; they were fixed
intently on the matting; they were wide open, staring open.
“Well... Mrs. Boatwright felt that it was not yet the time to go. She
distrusted this man. So we stayed a few days longer.”
“You are not telling me.”
“Yes. I am coming to it. Betty... Betty felt that she couldn’t let him
go alone.”
In a hushed, almost a reflective voice Doane asked: “So she came with
him?”
Dr. Cassin bowed. Elmer Boatwright bowed. Doane glanced up briefly, and
took them in; then his gaze centered again on the matting.
“And they are here now?”
“Betty is staying with Madame Pourmont. Mr. Brachey is living in a
tent.”
“Where? What tent?”
Elmer Boatwright did not wait to hear this question answered, or the
rush of other palliative phrases that were pressing nervously on the tip
of Dr Cas-sin’s not unsympathetic tongue. Never had he heard the quiet
menace in Griggsby Doane’s voice that was in it as he almost calmly
uttered those three words, “Where? What tent?” He could nut himself
think clearly; his mind was a blur of fears and nervous impulses. Doane
wasn’t normal; that was plain. Dr. Cassin’s bare announcement was a blow
so severe that even as he framed that tense question he was struggling
to control the blind wild forces that were ravaging that giant frame
of his. Once wholly out of control, he might do anything. He might kill
Brachey. Yes, easily that! It was in his eyes.... And so, without a
plan, all confused impulses, Elmer Boatwright slipped out, closing the
door behind him. On the outer sill of the little building he paused,
trying desperately to think; but, failing in this effort, harried
through the night to Brachey’s tent.
He was, of course, far from understanding himself. It was a moment in
which no small dogmatic mind, once touched by the illogic of merely
human sympathy, could hope to understand itself. Though he and Brachey
were barely speaking, he had watched the man during the capture of the
Chinese gun and ammunition. And since that incident he had observed that
Brachey was steadily winning the respect of all in the compound. The
confusing thought was that a sinner could do that. For he believed,
with his wife, and Miss Hemphill, that Brachey and Betty had sinned. Dr.
Cassin had been more guarded in her judgment but probably she believed
it, too. Sin, of course, to what may without unpleasant connotation
be termed the professionally religious mind, is a definite, really a
technical fact. In the faith of the Boatwrights it could be atoned only
by an inner conviction followed by the blessing of the Holy Spirit. No
mere good conduct, no merely admirable human qualities, could save the
sinner. And neither Betty nor Brachey had shown the slightest sign of
the regenerative process. In Mrs. Boatwright’s judgment, therefore,
since she was a woman of utter humorless logic, of unconquerable faith
in conscience, the two stood condemned. But her husband, in this time of
tragic stress, was discovering certain merely human qualities that were
bound to prove disconcerting to his professed philosophy. He wanted,
now, to help Brachey; and yet, as he ran through courtyard after
courtyard, he couldn’t wholly subdue certain strong misgivings as to
what his wife might think if she knew.
3
Before the tent he hesitated. The flap was tied; he shook it, with a
trembling hand. He heard, then, the steady breathing of the man within.
He tried knocking on the pole, through the canvas, but without effect on
the sleeper. Then, with a curious sensation of guilt, he reached in and
untied the flap, above, then below; and passed cautiously in. The night
was warm. Brachey lay uncovered, dressed, as Boatwright saw when he
struck a match to make certain of his man, in all but coat, collar and
shoes.
Boatwright blew out the match. For another moment he stood wondering at
himself; then laid a hand on the sleeper’s shoulder. Brachey started up
instantly; swung his feet to the floor; said in a surprisingly alert,
cautious voice:
“What is it?”
“It’s Elmer Boatwright.”
“Oh!” was Brachey’s reply to this. He quietly lighted the candle that
stood on a small table by the head of his cut. Then he added the single
word, “Well?”
“I have come on a peculiar errand, Mr. Brachey...” Boatwright was
fumbling for words.
“Yes?”
“There is little time for talk. A queer situation... let me say
this--when you came to the mission and asked us to leave T’ainan with
you it was under the supposition that Griggsby Doane was dead.”
“Yes.... You mean that now... that the news was inaccurate?”
Boatwright inclined his head.
“He is alive, then?”
Another bow.
“Where is he?”
“Well... it is... I must ask you to consider the situation calmly. It is
difficult.”
Boatwright felt the man’s eyes on him, coolly surveying him. It did seem
a bit absurd to be cautioning this strange being to be calm. Had he ever
been otherwise? Here he was, roused abruptly from slumber, listening,
and looking, like a judge. He said now with quick understanding:
“He is here?”
Boatwright’s head inclined.
“How did he ever get through?”
“We haven’t heard the details yet. There’s so much else.... I want to
make it plain to you that he isn’t altogether himself. He has evidently
been through a terrible experience. He was wounded. He has some fever
now, I believe.... Let me put it this way. He has just now learned that
you are here---that you--”
“That I brought his daughter here?” The remark was cool, clear,
decisive.
“Well--yes. Now please understand me. He isn’t himself. The news shocked
him. I could see that. My suggestion is--well, that you move over to the
residence for the rest of the night.”
“Why?”
“You see--Mr. Doane asked where you might be found, in what tent. He has
had no time to reflect over the situation. His present mood is--well,
as I said, not normal. I’ve thought that to-morrow--after he has
slept--some--we can prevail on him to consider it calmly.”
“You mean that he may attack me?”
“Well--yes. It’s quite possible. Monsieur Pour-mont would take you in
now. I’m sure. In the morning you’ll be back in your trenches. That will
give us time to...”
His voice died out. His gaze anxiously followed Brachey’s movements.
The man had buttoned on his collar, and was knotting his tie before the
little square mirror that hung on the rear tent-pole. Next he brushed
his hair. Then he got into his coat. And then he discovered that he was
in his stocking feet. That bit of absent-mindedness was the only sign he
gave of excitement.
“If I might suggest that you hurry a little,” thus Boatwright... “it’s
possible that he’s on his way here now.”
“Who?” asked Brachey coolly, raising his head. “Oh--you mean Doane.”
“Yes. I really think--”
Brachey waved him to be still. He moved to the tent opening, peered out
into the night, then turned and looked straight at his caller, slightly
pursing his lips.
“Where is Mr. Doane?” he asked.
“He was in my room. But you’re not--you don’t mean--”
“I’m going to see him, of course.”
“But that’s impossible. He may kill you.”
“What has that to do with it?”
This blunt question proved difficult to meet. Boatwright found himself
saying, rather weakly, “I’m sure everything can be explained later.”
“The time to explain is now.”
With this, and a slight added sound that might have been an indication
of impatience, Brachey strode out.
4
For a moment Boatwright stood in the paralysis of fright; then,
catching his breath, he ran out after this strangely resolute man;
quickly caught up with him, but found himself ignored. He even
talked--incoherently--as his short legs tried to keep pace with the
swift long stride of the other. He didn’t himself know what he was
saying. Nor did he stop when Brachey’s arm moved as if to brush him off;
though he perhaps had been clinging to that arm.
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