That same evening, Men-Ching, accompanied by another man, set forth upon
his journey to the south. It was calculated that he could reach the
river in five days, though to do so he would have to travel by night as
well as day. The prisoners had little doubt that he would find a
river-junk at Pinglo or at some other river-side village where the
brigands had established outposts. With the help of the current and a
favourable wind, he could reach Canton in a few days, and thence the
last stage of the journey could be completed by steam-boat--ships
leaving Canton for Hong-Kong at least twice a day.
There was, therefore, plenty of time--provided no mishap befell him--for
Men-Ching to fulfil his mission. Cheong-Chau, who knew his business,
had taken steps to convince the Governor that the plight of the judge
was genuine. He had included in the envelope containing his own letter
a gold signet ring, which he himself had taken from the finger of Sir
Thomas.
When Men-Ching left the cave it was raining hard. He brought the two
letters to the fireside, desiring in all probability to satisfy the
prisoners that there was to be no mistake, that he was not going to take
any risks. He took off his faded scarlet coat, ripped up the lining
with a sharp knife, and sewed the letters inside. That done, he tied a
sash around his waist, threw a straw raincoat across his shoulders, and
put on a large straw hat such as the coolies wear when at work in the
southern ricefields. Then he and his companion departed, Men-Ching
carrying in his hand a long stick. They followed the narrow path that
traversed that bare, desolate region, at one moment on the crest-line of
a watershed, at another upon the very brink of a precipice.
The rain descended in torrents, shutting out completely the last rays of
the setting sun. A great darkness descended upon the wilderness. The
water in the gullies and ravines mounted with the rapidity of
quicksilver; and presently the night was alive with savage, discordant
sounds: the wind howling amongst the rocks, the roar of cataracts,
turbulent streams plunging, as if demented, down the mountain-side. But
in spite of the darkness and the rain, Men-Ching and his companion
continued to move rapidly towards the south. He was an old man, as we
know, but he was by no means inactive. Also, he knew every inch of the
road. It was probably for that reason that Cheong-Chau had selected him
to undertake the journey.
They did not halt to rest until many hours after daybreak, and then
snatched only a few hours' sleep, after eating a handful of rice. The
storm had cleared. Men-Ching took off his raincoat, and stretched it
out upon the ground, in order that it might dry in the sun. Placing
both his hands upon his faded scarlet coat, he expressed the greatest
satisfaction to find that it was absolutely dry. The letters were safe;
he could feel them inside the lining. There was no chance that the rain
had washed out the ink. Indeed, in the whole world, there is probably
no more efficient waterproof garment than the straw raincoat of the Far
East.
In course of time Men-Ching gained the southern extremity of the
Nan-ling Mountains, at a place not far from the town of Pinglo. The
rich, fertile valley lay before him, extending as far as the eye could
reach. He had left behind him China, the desolate, the barbarous, the
unknown; before him lay China, the civilised, the prosperous, the land
of ceaseless industry and untold wealth.
And there, for the time being, we may leave him, still travelling
towards the south upon his robber's errand. We will leave him to his
fate, to the mercy of the heathen gods he may or may not have
worshipped. His destiny was already sealed, though little did Men-Ching
dream that that was so.
In the cave, day followed day, so far as the captives were concerned,
with the same dreary monotony; the same fears and half-foolish hopes.
They could take no exercise, and they had no books to read. There was
nothing for them to do but to talk, to discuss amongst themselves the
tragedy of their position.
And as time passed they had less and less reason to trust Cheong-Chau,
to think that they could rely upon his word. The man proved himself a
reprobate. He was an opium drunkard; and that is a thing not so common
in China as the majority of Europeans imagine.
It is true that opium is smoked throughout the length and breadth of the
East. Indeed, the opium pipe in China is the equivalent to the British
workman's glass of beer, and opium dens in that country are as common as
public-houses in this.
At the same time, most Chinese are only moderate smokers. They do not
smoke enough opium even to injure their health. The reason for this is
obvious: opium, even in China, is very expensive, and the ordinary man
cannot afford to buy much of it. Neither does opium happen to be a drug
that does a great deal of harm unless it is taken in excess; it probably
does infinitely less harm than alcohol. If taken in large doses,
however, its results are disastrous and terrible.
For some reason or other--never explained by physiologists--repeated
doses of opium sap the moral fibre. A man begins to smoke opium in a
small way, but after a time he finds that he has to smoke double the
quantity of pipes in order to get the desired result. And so on, until
he finds himself taking doses that would kill one who was not inured to
the drug. By that time he has lost everything a man should value most:
his sense of honour, his will power, much of his physical strength, and
his power of concentration. He is a degenerate whose mind is filled
with the foulest, most perverted fancies, who is a stranger to truth,
and who delights as often as not in committing the most fiendish of
crimes.
Now Cheong-Chau was evidently such a man; for one night he rolled into
the cave, awakening his captives--who for many hours had been fast
asleep--by the blasphemy and violence of his language. His gait was
unsteady; the pupils of his eyes, visible in the bright light of the
fire, were small as pinheads. He carried in his hand a naked sword.
"I am Cheong-Chau," he shrieked. "Death to all foreign devils who dare
set foot upon the sacred soil of China!"
Bursting into a loud laugh, he raised his sword as if he would strike
down Mr Waldron, who had risen to his feet.
"Stay," cried the judge. "Have we not your oath--that if the money is
paid you will not stain your hands in blood?"
"Oath!" cried the robber. "What are oaths and blood to me? Am I a
Canton flower-girl or a Buddhist priest that I should not shed blood
when the fancy takes me? Know that I am Cheong-Chau, the robber, who
cares for neither oaths nor gods nor men."
For some reason or other he had singled out the American; and it looked
most certain that, at that moment, the life of Mr Hennessy K. Waldron
was in the greatest danger. However, Mr Waldron never moved an inch; he
neither drew back nor showed the slightest sign of alarm. He held his
ground, staring the villain boldly in the face.
[Illustration: MR. WALDRON NEVER MOVED AN INCH.]
It was, in all probability, solely his courage that saved him. The
Chinese was so low down in the scale of humanity that he was not far
removed from the beasts; and it is well known that no animal can for any
length of time look a strong man in the eyes. The eyes of Mr Waldron
were those of one who had carved a way for himself in the world,
who--starting life in a very humble sphere--had conquered a thousand
difficulties; thereby proving himself a strong man who could not fail to
be conscious of his strength.
Cheong-Chau was unable to maintain his threatening and defiant attitude
before that steel-grey, steady gaze. Slowly his sword descended; his
eyes dropped to the ground. Mr Waldron, with admirable calmness,
deliberately placed a hand upon the man's shoulder, and addressed him in
the English language in a tone that was even kindly.
"Say, old cockolorum," said he, "you ought to retire from business.
You're doing yourself no good, you know. Guess you want a good six
weeks at some quiet seaside resort, where there's no more excitement
than a dance-hall or a merry-go-round. Take the missus and the kids."
Cheong-Chau turned away with an oath. No doubt he supposed that Mr
Waldron had delivered a brief speech, somewhat in the tragic vein,
suitable to the occasion; for neither in the expression upon the
American's face nor in the serious tones of his voice was there anything
to convey the intelligence that Mr Waldron was disposed to be frivolous.
For all that, they could not overlook the fact that, whether or not the
ransom were paid, their lives were in the greatest danger. The man who
held them in his power was subject to ungovernable fits of wrath, during
which his mental condition bordered upon that type of insanity which is
inseparable from the truly criminal character. At such times--which
invariably followed a debauch of opium smoking--Cheong-Chau was
certainly not responsible for his actions; and discussing the question
among themselves, they came to the conclusion that at any moment the
order to murder them might be issued. By no such act of treachery could
the brigand forfeit the ransom, since both the prisoners and Cheong-Chau
himself had no means of direct communication with Hong-Kong. Men-Ching
should be now well upon his way, approaching the city of Canton.
It was Mr Waldron who suggested that one of them should endeavour to
escape. At first, this idea struck the judge as a piece of outrageous
folly, since if one of the three even did succeed in getting away from
the cave and crossing the mountains--a very unlikely contingency--the
murderous Cheong-Chau would be so furious that he would probably not
hesitate to make short work of the unfortunate two who remained. On
debating the matter, however, Mr Waldron was able to throw quite another
light upon the situation.
He explained that if a survivor reached Hong-Kong who could not only
identify Cheong-Chau himself and the majority of his men, but who could
actually guide an avenging expedition to the neighbourhood of the cave,
the brigands would be hunted from pillar to post, and if not captured,
certainly driven from the province. The robber could not be unaware
that in the British colony were both English and Indian troops, whilst a
large fleet lay at anchor in the harbour, and he must have known enough
of the British Government to remember that the cold-blooded murder of
British citizens was an act not likely to be overlooked. He could not
wish to involve both himself and the members of his gang in
international complications. He would therefore, in all probability,
hesitate to do away with his captives.
It is true that an attempt to escape might fail, in which case the
plight of the prisoners would be, if anything, somewhat worse. But in
any case, as day succeeded day, they became more and more convinced that
Cheong-Chau intended to kill them. He did but bide his time, waiting to
hear news of Men-Ching to the effect that the ransom had been duly paid.
For these reasons it was eventually decided that one of them should
endeavour to escape.
It was next necessary to settle who should go. The judge himself was
too old to attempt to cross the mountains alone upon so long and
hazardous a journey. The choice, therefore, lay between Frank Armitage
and Mr Waldron.
The American--who had already proved himself a man of the greatest
courage, both physical and moral--was naturally anxious to take the risk
himself. However, he could not be blind to the fact that he laboured
under several very serious disadvantages.
In the first place, he was entirely ignorant of both the language and
the country. He knew neither the habits and customs of the people nor
the topography of Southern China. Frank, on the other hand, had been
born and had lived all his life in China; on many a former occasion he
had proved himself quite capable of conversing even with the most
untutored and obstinate peasants. Moreover, the boy was the most active
member of the party: he was a good runner; he could climb, if necessary,
to the top of mountain peaks, and he was an adept at swimming--an
important item, since he might have to cross the West River, as well as
several tributaries, in order to reach Canton or the coast.
It was this consideration that settled the question in the mind of Mr
Waldron. The American was obliged to confess that he could not swim
except for a short distance in salt water. If he endeavoured to cross
the strong current of a great river without even taking his clothes off,
he would most assuredly drown.
"And in that case," he observed, "I might as well have stayed here to
have my throat cut in my sleep, or sample the death by a thousand cuts."
He spoke of such atrocities as if they were nothing. He was so calm
about it all that the judge looked at him, wondering whether he was one
of the few really brave men in the world, or whether he was entirely
devoid of imagination. In any case, Mr Waldron withdrew his claim to be
allowed to undertake the adventure; and the choice fell upon Frank.
Once this all-important question was settled, it was obvious that there
was nothing to be gained--indeed, there was much to lose--by putting off
Frank's departure. The sooner he was away the better, though they did
not then realise the supreme importance of time, the alarming fact that
the lives both of Sir Thomas and Mr Waldron were to hang upon the thin
thread of a few seconds.
It was decided that Frank should endeavour to make his escape from the
cave that night. It was in the act of passing the sentries, posted at
the entrance, that the bulk of his danger would lie. Once the boy
succeeded in getting away from the cave, his absence would probably not
be discovered until the following morning. He would, in that case, have
several hours' start of any pursuers whom Cheong-Chau might think fit to
send after him.
Frank had already considered the contingency of making a dash for
liberty. He had, so far as he had been able to do so from the interior
of the cave, studied the lie of the land. He had noticed that the
sentries were not particularly vigilant and that they were armed with
old-fashioned, out-of-date fire-arms which they possibly knew not how to
use. One of these was a Martini-Henry carbine, and Frank had on one
occasion seen a Chinese trying in vain to lower the lever, which was so
rusted on to the lock that it was quite certain that the breech could
never be opened.
Immediately before the entrance to the cave was the huge boulder, or
rock, which has already been described. On either side of this rock a
sentry was always posted. But these men did not necessarily face the
cave. Indeed, as often as not, they looked the other way, interesting
themselves in the wide panorama extended before them. None the less,
since the two passages on either side of the boulder were very narrow,
one could never hope to pass without being seen. Escape that way,
therefore, was impossible without a struggle, which meant that the alarm
would be given and a party would immediately start in pursuit of the
fugitive.
This was what Frank most wanted to avoid. He knew that his attempt was
doomed to failure if he did not succeed in getting well away. He
therefore examined the rock itself, and saw at once that it would be
quite easy to climb to the top of it. Since he could not pass _round_
this obstacle he would have to go _over_ it. On the other side, as he
knew, was the steep mountain slope descending hundreds of feet to the
bed of the valley. Whether he could climb down the slope at all, much
less do so silently, so as not to be overheard by the sentries, was
another question. He was resolved, however, to take the risk. It was
clear that there was no other alternative. It was a perilous business,
but he must make the best of it, trusting to Providence, as well as his
own agility and presence of mind.