“My wife feels very faint—the reaction, I suppose. Have you any spirits
or wine on board?”
“Good God! Is one of you a woman?” said Shelford. “Yes, there’s whisky
in plenty in the cabin. Take her down and let her lie on the settee—and,
padré, when you’ve given her some whisky you might bring me a peg and
I’ll drink to the health of a brave woman. Forgive me for my seeming
brutality, but I thought you were all men. Anyway I think we’ve all
earned a drink, and you’ll also find some tins of biscuits in the
locker.”
Shelford’s further remarks to himself and the way in which he
undeservedly accused himself for lack of feeling for a female in
distress were fortunately inaudible and equally fortunately
unpublishable.
The whisky-and-soda and biscuits had a wonderful revivifying effect on
the small party of Europeans, and now, as the steam launch crept slowly
down the river, the first grey streaks of dawn began to appear. The
married missionary and his wife were asleep on the settees in the cabin,
the other missionary dozed in a cane chair near the wheel, and as the
light increased Shelford recognised the land on either side and rang
down to the engine-room for full speed ahead. In less than an hour of
sunrise they were safe in Ping Tu. Friends came off to meet them, the
missionaries were tenderly cared for by the ever hospitable people
ashore, the two engine-room hands, to their great surprise, suddenly
found themselves arrested for having been participators in the plot to
kill the white men, and Shelford proceeded to the British Consul to make
his report. A letter of protest was then sent to the obese and somnolent
To Phat, but everyone knew that no reforms could take place in the town
of Whang Chai till the return of the enlightened military officer, Hop
Chu Tung, who was at present away.
Shelford didn’t talk much in the Club, and the missionaries were too
bewildered by their exciting few hours to give much of an account of
what had happened, so the incident was soon lost in the more important
event of the approaching races.
Gubbins had proved full of energy and had been able to walk the famous
Kwa Niu round the course, a great advance, as for some time the animal
had refused to go between the rails at any price. Now Gubbins was
confident that if Kwa Niu started he’d either win or savage every other
pony on the track.
At last the opening day arrived. A Ping Tu race-meeting is worthy of a
short description.
The racecourse is situated some two miles from the town, and is
approached by a good road. The track is laid round a hollow, oval in
shape, nearly seven furlongs in length, bounded on one side by the river
and on the other by low scrubby hills. The centre is cultivated by
market-gardeners to the n-th term.
On the outer side, when turning the corner to come down the straight to
the winning-post, is a thick clump of screw-pines, but more of that
clump anon. Opposite the winning-post is the grand-stand, built of
brick, with stalls beneath for the stabling of the ponies. Every lady in
Ping Tu goes to the races because she has a new dress from England for
the occasion, and every man goes because he has a pony entered or, at
least, a share of a pony. There is a paddock of hard bamboo grass, a
bar, and a fenced-in promenade for ladies and members, outside which the
Chinese swarm in every degree of blue cotton garment, from the newest
and most stiff of the well-to-do to the washed-out and carefully-patched
garments of the impecunious.
You can depend on fine weather in the month of February in Ping Tu; so
every lady feels happy knowing she can wear her best clothes.
There is a general air of holiday in the community when the races begin,
business is at a standstill, the men repair to the Club and split their
pints of “the boy,” while the ladies put the finishing touches to their
toilets. And now everyone is arriving on the course, the English,
French, Russian, German, and other Consuls with their wives. The members
of all the “hongs,” or business firms, with their belongings, and lastly
Cretes, Jews, Arabians, etc., as it says in the Book of Common Prayer.
The British Consul had brought his consular guard of twelve Sikh police,
and the Military Governor of Whang Chai had just returned in time to
witness the races, and arrived that morning with two hundred Chinese
troops to keep the course clear. All was bustle and excitement, the
popping of champagne corks mingled with the pleasant hum of innumerable
voices, and the Chinese Military Governor, with his Cambridge education,
moved everywhere among the assembled crowd talking in perfect English.
Foh, the military official of Whang Chai, had only arrived at his
headquarters the day before, and although deeply concerned at finding
the mission gutted and at the outrageous treatment Shelford had
received, his sporting instincts had led him to attend the races before
executing summary justice upon the perpetrators of the outrage. So far
Foh had had no opportunity of speaking to Shelford.
And then approached the great event of the day, the Derby. The Pari
Mutuel was besieged by the Europeans and wealthier Chinese, and
excitement was great as the numbers went up for the race. There were
seven starters—Kwa Niu, pink with black cap; Stone Broke, blue and white
check; Fuji San, green, white cap; Try Again, cerise; Greyfoot, yellow
jacket, blue cap; Dai Nippon, blue and white hoops, yellow cap; and The
Dodger, scarlet and old gold quartered.
The race is a mile and a half, and every occupant of the grand-stand was
eagerly waiting with glasses fixed on the starting-point to see the
ponies off. So keen was their attention that the clamour rising from the
swarming hordes of Chinese outside the enclosure was unheard. At last
they were off to a good start, and Kwa Niu, acting up to his usual
reputation, appears to be left. At once a hail of good-natured chaff
fell on Shelford, when all at once the eyes of all in the stand were
directed to the railings round the enclosure. A fight of more than usual
violence appeared to be going on there: the Sikh police were being
assaulted, railings were torn up and used by the Chinese against the
Indians, the latter being crushed down by weight of superior numbers.
The mob surged across the course, several of the men ran and shut the
wooden doors by which the grand-stand was entered. Shelford was the
first to grasp the situation. He had recognised Ching urging on the mob.
Foh also had seen how grave matters looked and rushed to the edge of the
balcony, shouting orders to his soldiers. These, however, were busily
tearing off their uniform jackets and mingling with the surging mob.
Cries of “Kill! Kill!” resounded on all sides, and a fierce fight
proceeded round the doors to the grand-stand between the few remaining
Sikhs and the mob. The men tore off the iron rails round the balcony,
and, headed by Shelford and Foh, ran to the gates and engaged with the
mob, dealing deadly blows right and left on the shaven heads round them.
What a position! Here were unarmed Europeans about to be destroyed by a
mob of equally unarmed Chinese, and the women above in a frail structure
of bricks and wood. Foh was nearly insane with rage. He felt himself
more or less responsible for the good behaviour of the people, and here
he was, powerless and deserted by his soldiers. The others had to
restrain him from rushing into the mob alone to certain death. Now came
a diversion. A horseman dashed through the mob at a furious gallop,
scattering the people right and left, his steed savagely biting and
snapping at everyone within reach. The unknown rider was gone like a
flash, and the Chinese returned to the attack. Lustily the white people
rained blows on their yellow brethren, and many a blood-stained European
proved that the Chinese were getting some home themselves. The fight was
desperate as far as the white men were concerned, for were not their
women-folk above in the grand-stand. Once again the Chinese drew off
with loud cries, and once more this desperate rider appeared; he threw
himself from the saddle and joined the small band of defenders, and then
a most extraordinary scene was enacted. A small pony, apparently all
hoofs and teeth, took on the fight. Savaging, kicking, biting, he rushed
among the frightened Chinese, while the exhausted white defenders
marvelled at the supernatural animal and regained their breath for a
fresh onslaught. The pony was Kwa Niu and his rider Gubbins. Kwa Niu
played the very devil with his own compatriots, not because he owed any
allegiance to his English owner, but because he was a devil from start
to finish.
Suddenly a bugle rang out above the noise of the yelling mob, some
horsemen in gaudy silk jackets dashed among the disordered Chinese, and
deliverance arrived in the shape of a small party of American marines,
headed by a young ensign with drawn sword.
“Why, there’s something doing in this one-horse little burg after all!”
quietly remarked the smiling officer as his handful of marines turn and
face the mob now fleeing in all directions. “Say, are the ladies all
right? Good boys, I knew you’d look after them. Guess the rest of your
Derby winners turned up in about time to turn us out.”
Now there was sudden relaxation from grave to gay. People rolled about
in uncontrollable laughter, the tears streaming down their cheeks. Even
the stolid marines smiled. And the cause for this unexpected merriment
was Gubbins. There he stood in a black cap, but otherwise as nature made
him. Finding all eyes directed on him, he assumed the colour known as
salmon pink. However, his blushes were quickly hidden under a Newmarket
coat, provided by someone who had sufficient control over his risibility
to think intelligibly. None too soon was the youthful Gubbins covered
up, for the ladies were now all anxiety to leave the racecourse and
return to the safer protection of their own houses. The American marines
and Sikhs escorted the ladies to their houses, guards were stationed and
sentries posted about the town, and a somewhat anxious night passed off
without further incident.
At an early hour next morning Foh arrived on horseback. He had ridden to
Whang Chai and back, and had done many things during the night. He
visited the various Consuls and principal business people of the
community and explained that Ching and the other ringleaders of the riot
had been captured and executed, that he had an efficient guard of
fifteen hundred trusted soldiers then on their way to Ping Tu, and that
for the prestige of all Europeans it was absolutely necessary that the
races should be continued that day. The Europeans were at first
doubtful, but they soon saw Foh’s arguments, and in due course the
various wives had the proposal laid before them. To the everlasting
credit of the tender sex be it told that not a woman hesitated. As the
men thought it was the right thing to do, they all did it, and again the
smart frocks from “home” adorned the grand-stand of the racecourse.
So far we have not understood why Gubbins made his opportune entry on
Kwa Niu clad only in a black cap. The explanation discloses a little
side-plot in the drama. In certain parts of the coast of England it used
to be the practice of little children when going to bed to pray somewhat
as follows: “Please, God, bless father! Please, God, bless mother; and
please, God, send a wreck ashore before morning!” The prayer of these
innocents possessed a counterpart in the feelings of some of the
peaceable people of Ping Tu during race week. Their prayer, however, was
that a rider might be thrown at the bend by the screw-pines in order
that they might strip him of his coveted gaudy silk coat, his silk
breeches, and good leather boots. To assist “providence” it occasionally
happened that a jockey’s stirrup leathers were partly cut through with a
sharp knife, so that on rounding a corner sharply one leather might give
way and so unseat the rider. On this occasion they had chosen Gubbins
for their victim, and his leathers were duly faked by his “mah foo.”
Everything happened in due order for the benefit of the gentle
Celestials. Kwa Niu was well behind the others, and threw his rider at
the bend as desired. Gubbins got a nasty toss, and was for a few seconds
unconscious, during which time he was stripped of everything except his
cap. Suddenly regaining consciousness, he found himself surrounded by
Chinese, and jumped up in great excitement, thinking he was about to be
murdered. Fortunately for him, Kwa Niu was kicking and bucking around
within a few yards. Wild with fear Gubbins rushed at the pony, vaulted
into the saddle, and, as we know, went once round the course, and only
managed to pull the brute up the second time he reached the grand-stand,
where his arrival proved so opportune.
The second day of the races passed off with perfect quiet and order.
Foh’s soldiers arrived in good time, and were more than sufficient to
overawe the rabble. At last Mrs. British Consul stood up to give the
prizes for the various races. The prizes for the first three races are
given, and then comes the handsome bowl for the Derby.
“The Derby! Why, Kwa Niu was the only horse that finished!” says
everyone, and the blushing Gubbins is pushed forward.
“Objection,” says the American Consul; “he never weighed in.”
“Go and weigh in,” says Shelford.
Of course it was quite unorthodox, but anyway Gubbins got his saddle
and, amidst a laughing crowd of men, weighed in wearing a black cap
only. Fortunately he had carried over weight, and as he stood his weight
was exact. The decision was received with cheer upon cheer. Shelford had
undoubtedly won the Derby, and Gubbins, hastily regaining his clothes,
was carried before Mrs. British Consul.
Shyly he received the bowl, but when Mrs. Consul said, “I think your
colours were pink with a black cap, Mr. Gubbins,” well, Mr. Gubbins’
colours might very well have been described as scarlet. “But we were all
too upset to notice you,” kindly added the lady, “and, at all events, we
think you and Kwa Niu saved our lives.”
Yes, it was a very popular win, and the missionaries are back in Whang
Chai again. The pig-like To Phat has been removed to another district,
and the mission-house and school have been rebuilt, and, I am glad to
say, their new sites do not in any way encroach on the anatomy of the
famous guardian dragon that lives beneath the hill in Whang Chai.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PLYMOUTH
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED
PRINTERS
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● Transcriber’s Notes:
○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected.
○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
when a predominant form was found in this book.
○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).