When they reached the junk, Ling was not able to ascend by means of the
rope up which he had swarmed so easily before. Frank went on deck, and
finding a rope ladder, lowered it over the side of the ship.
By means of this Ling climbed to the deck, whence he descended to the
cabin below, where the paraffin lamp was still burning brightly.
He asked Frank to procure for him a bucket of river water; and whilst
the boy was absent, the man took off his coat and the thin under-vest
that he wore. The bullet had passed under his ribs, on the left side of
his body. The wound, which was still bleeding profusely, was a great,
ugly rent. When Frank returned with water he was at once shocked and
astonished to observe the expression upon the man's face.
His features were pinched and drawn and haggard. The agony he suffered
had caused deep lines to appear upon his forehead and about his mouth,
and his eyes seemed to have sunk into his head. Beyond doubt, any other
man would have fainted; but Ling was possessed of something of the
vitality of a cat. He was able to speak with difficulty, yet his mind
was perfectly clear. Assisted by the boy, he washed and dressed his
wound.
He had evidently small regard for antiseptics, for in place of lint and
iodoform, he utilised ordinary ship's tow, which he held in place by
means of a silk sash tied tightly round his waist. Then he ordered
Frank to search the ship for opium.
The boy found a bowl of the treacle-like substance upon a table in the
cabin. This he brought to Ling, together with an opium pipe and a
spirit-lamp.
The man smiled, at the same time thanking the boy for his kindness.
"I am too far gone to smoke," said he. "I desire to be released from
pain."
At that, he dipped his hand into the bowl and proceeded to eat the
contents. The boy stood by, amazed. He knew enough of the potency of
the drug to believe that Ling had swallowed enough to kill himself. He
knew nothing, however, of the man's capacity for consuming poisonous
doses of morphine.
In a few minutes the drug began to work. His eyes, which had become
dull, grew brighter; the wrinkles slowly vanished from his face. When
he spoke, his voice was stronger.
"You may think," said he to Frank, "that the tables are turned, that you
are now master of the situation. It may have occurred to you that you
have but to go into the other room to release your European friends, and
then it will be an easy thing to overpower a wounded man. I assure you,
that is not the case."
"I had no such thought," said Frank.
Ling smiled again, regarding the boy even kindly--if such an expression
may be used in regard to a man whose face was like that of a hawk.
"You are my friend," said he. "I know not why I like you. I think,
because you are brave. I am not fool enough to believe for a moment
that you love me; but I am sure that you have always realised that I am
a just man, whereas Cheong-Chau was no better than a fiend. I would
have you to understand--lest I be forced to harm you--that, wounded as I
am, I am still master of this ship and master of you. My strength is
going rapidly from me, as the tide goes down upon the margin of the sea,
or as the sun sets when the day draws to its close. But I can still
shoot, and if you play me false I shall kill you. Whilst the breath of
life is within me, you will be wise to obey my orders."
He got to his feet, and walking more briskly than before, ascended to
the upper deck, followed by Frank. There they hoisted the sail, and
going to the forepart of the ship, hauled up the anchor. A minute
later, the junk was sailing slowly down the river in the starlight, Ling
holding the tiller.
With a skill that proved that he had spent a portion of his life upon
the sea, he steered the junk into the narrow creek which had been
entered by the launch. There Ling, assisted by Frank, lowered a
gangway, conducting from the deck to the shore. The sail had been
hauled down and the ship secured by hawsers made fast to the trunks of
trees that grew upon the edge of the water.
Frank Armitage is never likely to forget that tragic night, its grim
work and pitiful conclusion. He was led by Ling to the Glade of
Children's Tears--so named, perhaps, because, in a barbarous age, the
murdered infants had been buried there, and the temple erected so that
men might pray to the heathen gods of China for those young souls who
had passed so soon into the Celestial Kingdom.
The faint, cold light of the dying moon here and there pierced the
branches of the trees, so that it was possible to distinguish the old
moss-clad ruins, the great fallen images, and the lifeless body of the
man whose very name had once spread terror from the Nan-ling Mountains
to the sea. There was no sign of Tong; the man had evidently recovered
consciousness and taken to his heels.
Frank stood by, a mute and wondering spectator of the fruitless efforts
of the wounded giant. The air was heavy with the scent of the blossom
which was on the trees; no sound disturbed the silence save the heavy
breathing of Ling, becoming shorter and shorter as he worked, and the
ceaseless washing of the water against the river bank.
Ling walked to the centre of the glade. His gait was steady, though his
stride shorter than usual. He stood at his full height; and had he not
once or twice carried a hand to his left side, the boy might have
forgotten that the man suffered grievous pain and was weak from loss of
blood.
He stood for a moment, thinking. It may have been that then he prayed
to the god he worshipped, the god of Confucius and Mencius and the sages
of all China: the Eternal Spirit of the Universe, the Incomprehensible
Wisdom of the world.
Then he passed on to the great stone, which, not without difficulty, he
rolled from its place. That done, he descended into the vault below,
where he struck a match, lighting a candle he had brought with him from
the junk.
Frank, looking down, beheld a subterranean chamber, about five yards by
six in area, and not more than six feet deep--for Ling's head and
shoulders protruded above the level of the ground. And in this vault
were sacks, to the number of twenty, each of which was filled with a
thousand Mexican dollars.
Now a thousand silver dollars are no mean weight; and yet Ling unaided,
and in spite of his fast-failing strength, lifted the sacks one after
another and placed them upon the ground above.
Then he himself came forth from the vault, and stood for a moment
holding his left side, with the pale moonlight full upon his face. It
was the face of death itself.
The man's features were more drawn and haggard-looking even than before.
It may have been the moonlight that caused his countenance to appear
snow-white. He breathed like one who is spent from running; his great
chest heaved, and Frank perceived that his wound had opened again, and
the red blood was even then staining his clothes. Towards this man--of
whom, throughout all the adventures through which he had passed, he had
stood in the greatest dread--the boy now experienced feelings of
infinite commiseration.
"Let me help you?" he asked.
And Ling laughed aloud--a laugh that sounded forced and hollow, in which
there was more of irony than mirth. He pointed to one of the bags.
"Lift that up," said he.
Frank attempted to do so, but found that he had not the strength.
"You must go back to the junk," said he. "I give you my word of honour
I will be true to you. I will attend to your wound. I will do all I
can to help you."
"You do not know me," answered Ling. "I never give in. I go through
with that which I have begun. And besides, there is no time to lose. I
feel sure that Yung How has not wasted his time. If I delay I may be
captured."
"If you do not rest," cried Frank, "you will kill yourself."
Ling was silent a moment. Then he snapped his fingers. "And what does
that matter?" he asked. "What difference does it make to you--or, for
the matter of that, to me? Death is nothing. We are only put into the
world to die."
At that he lifted one of the bags upon his shoulder, and set forward in
the direction of the place where the junk was moored.