Ling was a Northerner. He hailed from the province of Honan, a land of
rugged hills and dark, inhospitable valleys, through which flows the
unnavigable Hoang-Ho, the turbulent Yellow River that thrashes its way
into the Gulf of Pe-chili, over cataracts and rocks, through dark,
precipitous ravines.
The Honanese are a warlike race. From this province the viceroys of the
north were wont to recruit the majority of their soldiers--wild,
raw-boned men who, in the old days, guarded the sacred presence of the
Emperor.
The pirates of the West River may be compared to wolf-packs that roam
the southern provinces in search of plunder. But Ling may be likened to
a solitary beast of prey, a man-eating tiger, or a rogue elephant--than
which there is no more dangerous beast in all the world. He lived by his
wits, his great strength and cunning. He had established such a
reputation for himself in the provinces of Kwang-si and Kwei-chau that
he was feared alike by peasants, priests, and mandarins. He committed
crime openly and gloried in it; for in China there are no police, and
prefects and magistrates can be bought with silver _taels_.
And Ling was a man of great wealth. He employed bribery when that was
likely to succeed. Otherwise he relied upon his Malay kris, or his
great hands, with which he could strangle the life out of an ordinary
man in no more time than it would take to wring the neck of a hen.
The wonder of this man was that he was a great scholar. He had passed
several of the public examinations in which the candidates could be
numbered by the thousand. He was learned in the classic books: _Spring
and Autumn_, _The Doctrine of the Mean_, _The Analects of Confucius_,
and the books of History, Rites and Music, and the Odes.
He was in the habit of quoting Confucius and the writings of the sages;
and he could always, by twisting the meaning of the proverbs of
antiquity, find excuses for his crimes.
"To the good I would be good," he would quote, adding: "As there are no
good on this earth, there is no necessity to be other than I am."
In no other country in the world would such a man have been allowed to
walk at large in the streets of a populous city. Everyone knew him, and
everyone feared him; but no one had the courage to step across his path.
He came and went at his pleasure, laughing in his loud, boisterous
manner, quoting from the writings of Confucius, Mencius, and the learned
Lao Tzu, the founder of the Taoist religion. It must be remembered that
China is a country in which everyone minds his own affairs. The sages
have taught the Chinese to believe that the destiny of every man is in
his own hands, and that whether he lives foolishly or wisely, whether he
does evil or good, is a question solely between that man himself and the
Spirit of the Universe. No one has the right to interfere.
In this world there are those who talk and those who act. Ling did
both. He bullied and threatened and stormed; he was childishly vain of
his learning, and in seven dialects he scattered his knowledge
broadcast. At the same time, he was a man of action; he was resolute
and brave, and without scruples or a sense of pity.
But neither courage nor brute strength nor wisdom, nor a combination of
the three, can accomplish all things. And in Ah Wu's opium den, the
mighty Ling found himself in the presence of three subtle,
smooth-tongued Cantonese; and the whole world across, from San Francisco
to Yokohama by way of Port Said, there is no more capable and fluent
liar than the lemon-skinned, almond-eyed Chinese who hails from the
province of Kwang-si. It is difficult to say who could lie most
gracefully, who was the greatest hypocrite--Ah Wu, Yung How, or
Men-Ching, the brigand. Each in his own way was a past master in the
craft of falsehood.
Moreover, they had no intention of taking Ling into their confidence.
They may have been frightened of the man, but not even fear could make
them behave like imbeciles. They knew that if Ling gained knowledge of
the presence of Mr Hennessy K. Waldron upon the upper reaches of one of
the rivers, there would be but little booty left for themselves. And so
they lied--gracefully, easily, pleasantly, and with admirable
consistency.
What that lie was is immaterial to the skein and texture of this story.
It was a presentable and passable falsehood, you may be sure, but it was
not good enough to deceive Ling, who, however, professed that he
believed every word they had told him, whilst he complacently smoked
pipe after pipe of opium--at Ah Wu's expense.
And then he left the opium den, paying for nothing, quoting from Mencius
in regard to the virtue of hospitality. In the dark streets of the
mammoth city his colossal figure became lost in the shadows; but he left
behind him, in the opium den, in the little room beneath the stairs, an
atmosphere of tension--a feeling that a great typhoon has passed, which
by a miracle had caused but little damage. The three conspirators
continued to discuss their plot, but they were no longer conscious of a
sense of security. Once or twice Ah Wu, who was the most nervous of the
three, glanced anxiously over his shoulder, whenever a heavy footstep
was heard in the room beyond.
They had lied to Ling to the best of their ability--which was saying
much. For all that, they had no reason to suppose that the gigantic
Honanese had believed a single word of what they had told him. In
consequence, they feared him all the more. The tiger was on the prowl,
and the three foxes, their heads close together, whispered in the ears
of one another and rolled their little pills.
They arranged matters to their satisfaction. Yung How was to attempt to
discover the destination of Sir Thomas Armitage and the wealthy
American. Men-Ching would lie in wait upon the river bank. Yung How
would signal to him as the launch went by. If their destination was the
North River, Yung How was to place his left hand upon the shaven
fore-part of his head. If it was the West River, he was to raise his
right hand. In either case, Men-Ching was to take horse and ride to
Pinglo, where he would inform Cheong-Chau that the fish were swimming
into his net. As for Ah Wu, at a later date, he was to play a certain
part for which--on account of his cunning and secretive nature--he was
eminently suited.
It was an exceedingly well-arranged plot, which will be duly explained
in the appointed place. There was some discussion in regard to what sum
it would be possible to obtain; but in the end it was decided that
twenty thousand dollars would be sufficient, allowing that Cheong-Chau
would take the bulk of it himself.
It was long past midnight when they came to the end of their
deliberations. By then they were heavy with opium, and their eyes
glazed from the drug. They threw themselves down upon the soft matted
couches in the outer room, and slept and dreamed--as Chinese will--of
things celestial, transcendental, such as cannot be expressed in words.
For all that, the following morning Yung How presented himself at the
breakfast-table of Sir Thomas Armitage in the Shamien Hotel.
"Well, Yung How," said the judge, "did you see your brother in Canton?"
"Yes, master," said Yung How, without moving a muscle of his face. "He
makes bobbery with his wife."
"You mean," said Sir Thomas, for the edification of Mr Waldron, "that he
and his wife have quarrelled?"
"Yes, master. She does not like that he smokes opium--once a week."
The judge made a wry face. "A nasty habit," said he.
"Yes, master," said Yung How; "only bad men smoke opium."
Sir Thomas looked at Yung How's eyes. The pupils were shrunken to the
size of little beads.
"Yes," said he. "You are right, Yung How; only bad men smoke opium."
"Opium does harm," said Yung How, who, five minutes later, appeared in
the hotel kitchen. Several coolies were eating rice upon a doorstep,
and one of these was the engineer of Sir Thomas's river-launch. It is
not pleasant to watch lower-class Chinese eat rice. They hold the bowl
about two inches from their mouths, which they open very wide, and then
they scoop up the rice with their fingers in much the same manner as one
might brush pieces of fluff from the sleeve of a coat.
"Ah Su," said Yung How, to the engineer, "has the judge told you where
we are going?"
"No," said Ah Su.
"The weather," said Yung How, "is very hot."
He then departed to the vestibule of the hotel, where he encountered the
comprador. In China, the comprador knows everything.
"Are there any letters for the judge?" asked Yung How, in a lordly
manner.
"He has them," said the comprador. "He himself took them into the
breakfast-room."
"We leave to-day," said Yung How casually.
"So I understand," said the other.
"I suppose letters will be forwarded?"
"The judge has given instructions. All letters and parcels are to be
forwarded to the British Consulate at Wu-chau."
"In Wu-chau," said Yung How, "I have a brother."
He turned away and went upstairs, where he entered the bedroom of Mr
Waldron. In one of the small drawers of the dressing-table he
discovered the millionaire's cheque-book; and since he could read
English tolerably well, he spent a pleasant five minutes studying the
counterfoils. Then quite suddenly Mr Waldron came in.
"Say," said he, "what are you doing here?"
"Have cleaned hairbrushes," said Yung How, without a moment's
hesitation.
"Then, git!" cried Mr Waldron. "Guess I can fill my own grip-sack. When
I want a slit-eyed son of Satan hanging around my boudoir, I'll send for
him. So, git!"
And Yung How "got." He walked gravely from the room with his head held
proudly in the air, and his eyes fixed upon the ground. He appeared
grossly insulted.
He knew very well, however, that the great city of Wu-chau lies upon the
West River, and is not so far--as the crow flies--from the town of
Pinglo, where Cheong-Chau was in the habit of smoking opium.