DRAGON'S BLOOD
by
HENRY MILNER RIDEOUT
with illustrations by HAROLD M. BRETT
1909
To
CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND,
15 Hollis Hall, Cambridge, Massachusetts
Dear Cope,
Mr. Peachey Carnehan, when he returned from Kafiristan, in bad shape but
with a king's head in a bag, exclaimed to the man in the newspaper
office, "And you've been sitting there ever since!" There is only a pig
in the following poke; and yet in giving you the string to cut and the
bag to open, I feel something of Peachey's wonder to think of you,
across all this distance and change, as still sitting in your great
chair by the green lamp, while past a dim background of books moves the
procession of youth. Many of us, growing older in various places,
remember well your friendship, and are glad that you are there, urging
our successors to look backward into good books, and forward into life.
Yours ever truly,
H. M. R.
_Sausalito, California_.
CONTENTS
I. A LADY AND A GRIFFIN
II. THE PIED PIPER
III. UNDER FIRE
IV. THE SWORD-PEN
V. IN TOWN
VI. THE PAGODA
VII. IPHIGENIA
VIII. THE HOT NIGHT
IX. PASSAGE AT ARMS
X. THREE PORTALS
XI. WHITE LOTUS
XII. THE WAR BOARD
XIII. THE SPARE MAN
XIV. OFF DUTY
XV. KAÚ FAI
XVI. THE GUNWALE
XVII. LAMP OF HEAVEN
XVIII. SIEGE
XIX. BROTHER MOLES
XX. THE HAKKA BOAT
XXI. THE DRAGON'S SHADOW
ILLUSTRATIONS
_"Good-by! A pleasant voyage"_ ... Frontispiece
_Rudolph was aware of crowded bodies, of yellow faces grinning_
_He let the inverted cup dangle from his hands_
_He went leaping from sight over the crest_
CHAPTER I
A LADY AND A GRIFFIN
It was "about first-drink time," as the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, bound
for Shanghai and Japan ports, observed to his friend Cesare Domenico, a
good British subject born at Malta. They sat on the coolest corner in
Port Said, their table commanding both the cross-way of Chareh Sultan el
Osman, and the short, glaring vista of desert dust and starved young
acacias which led to the black hulks of shipping in the Canal. From the
Bar la Poste came orchestral strains--"Ai nostri monti"--performed by a
piano indoors and two violins on the pavement. The sounds contended with
a thin, scattered strumming of cafe mandolins, the tinkle of glasses,
the steady click of dominoes and backgammon; then were drowned in the
harsh chatter of Arab coolies who, all grimed as black as Nubians, and
shouldering spear-headed shovels, tramped inland, their long tunics
stiff with coal-dust, like a band of chain-mailed Crusaders lately
caught in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. Athwart them, Parisian
gowns floated past on stout Italian forms; hulking third-class
Australians, in shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat,
hugging whiskey bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; British
soldiers, khaki-clad for India, raced galloping donkeys through the
crowded and dusty street. It was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the
tables, under the thin acacias, on a high tide of Amer Picon.
Through the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and
bewildered figure. He passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little Arab
bootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping
cheerfully: "Mista Ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice Frencha
girl--Mista McKenzie, Scotcha fella from Dublin--smotta picture--polish,
finish!"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. But presently, studying his
face, they cried in a loud voice, "Nix! Alles!" and left him, as one not
desiring polish.
"German, that chap," drawled the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, lazily,
noticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs, his
uncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral pink.
"The Eitel's in, then," replied Cesare. And they let the young Teuton
vanish in the vision of mixed lives.
Down the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a
man just wakened,--assailed by Oriental noise and smells, jostled by the
races of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary, unheeded
and self-conscious. With a villager's awkwardness among crowds, he made
his way to a German shipping-office.
"Dispatches for Rudolph Hackh?" he inquired, twisting up his blond
moustache, and trying to look insolent and peremptory, like an
employer of men.
"There are none, sir," answered an amiable clerk, not at all impressed.
Abashed once more in the polyglot street, still daunted by his first
plunge into the foreign and the strange, he retraced his path, threading
shyly toward the Quai François Joseph. He slipped through the barrier
gate, signaled clumsily to a boatman, crawled under the drunken little
awning of the dinghy, and steered a landsman's course along the shining
Canal toward the black wall of a German mail-boat. Cramping the Arab's
oar along the iron side, he bumped the landing-stage. Safe on deck, he
became in a moment stiff and haughty, greeting a fellow passenger here
and there with a half-military salute. All afternoon he sat or walked
alone, unapproachable, eyeing with a fierce and gloomy stare the
squalid front of wooden houses on the African side, the gray desert
glare of Asia, the pale blue ribbon of the great Canal stretching
southward into the unknown.
He composed melancholy German verses in a note-book. He recalled famous
exiles--Camoens, Napoleon, Byron--and essayed to copy something of all
three in his attitude. He cherished the thought that he, clerk at
twenty-one, was now agent at twenty-two, and traveling toward a house
with servants, off there beyond the turn of the Canal, beyond the curve
of the globe. But for all this, Rudolph Hackh felt young, homesick,
timid of the future, and already oppressed with the distance, the age,
the manifold, placid mystery of China.
Toward that mystery, meanwhile, the ship began to creep. Behind her,
houses, multi-colored funnels, scrubby trees, slowly swung to blot out
the glowing Mediterranean and the western hemisphere. Gray desert banks
closed in upon her strictly, slid gently astern, drawing with them to
the vanishing-point the bright lane of traversed water. She gained the
Bitter Lakes; and the red conical buoys, like beads a-stringing, slipped
on and added to the two converging dotted lines.
"Good-by to the West!" thought Rudolph. As he mourned sentimentally at
this lengthening tally of their departure, and tried to quote
appropriate farewells, he was deeply touched and pleased by the sadness
of his emotions. "Now what does Byron say?"
The sombre glow of romantic sentiment faded, however, with the sunset.
That evening, as the ship glided from ruby coal to ruby coal of the
gares, following at a steady six knots the theatric glare of her
search-light along arsenically green cardboard banks, Rudolph paced the
deck in a mood much simpler and more honest. In vain he tried the
half-baked philosophy of youth. It gave no comfort; and watching the
clear desert stars of two mysterious continents, he fell prey to the
unbounded and unintelligible complexity of man's world. His own career
seemed no more dubious than trivial.
Succeeding days only strengthened this mood. The Red Sea passed in a
dream of homesickness, intolerable heat, of a pale blue surface
stretched before aching eyes, and paler strips of pink and gray coast,
faint and distant. Like dreams, too, passed Aden and Colombo; and then,
suddenly, he woke to the most acute interest.
He had ignored his mess-mates at their second-class table; but when the
new passengers from Colombo came to dinner, he heard behind him the
swish of stiff skirts, felt some one brush his shoulder, and saw,
sliding into the next revolving chair, the vision of a lady in white.
"_Mahlzeit_" she murmured dutifully. But the voice was not German.
Rudolph heard her subside with little flouncings, and felt his ears grow
warm and red. Delighted, embarrassed, he at last took sufficient courage
to steal side-glances.
The first showed her to be young, fair-haired, and smartly attired in
the plainest and coolest of white; the second, not so young, but very
charming, with a demure downcast look, and a deft control of her spoon
that, to Rudolph's eyes, was splendidly fastidious; at the third, he was
shocked to encounter the last flitting light of a counter-glance, from
large, dark-blue eyes, not devoid of amusement.
"She laughs at me!" fumed the young man, inwardly. He was angry,
conscious of those unlucky wing-and-wing ears, vexed at his own
boldness. "I have been offensive. She laughs at me." He generalized from
long inexperience of a subject to which he had given acutely interested
thought: "They always do."
Anger did not prevent him, however, from noting that his neighbor
traveled alone, that she must be an Englishwoman, and yet that she
diffused, somehow, an aura of the Far East and of romance. He shot many
a look toward her deck-chair that evening, and when she had gone below,
strategically bought a cigar, sat down in the chair to light it, and by
a carefully shielded match contrived to read the tag that fluttered on
the arm: "B. Forrester, Hongkong."
Afterward he remembered that by early daylight he might have read it for
nothing; and so, for economic penance, smoked to the bitter end, finding
the cigar disagreeable but manly. At all events, homesickness had
vanished in a curious impatience for the morrow. Miss Forrester: he
would sit beside Miss Forrester at table. If only they both were
traveling first-class!--then she might be a great lady. To be enamored
of a countess, now--A cigar, after all, was the proper companion of
bold thoughts.
At breakfast, recalling her amusement, he remained silent and wooden. At
tiffin his heart leaped.
"You speak English, I'm sure, don't you?" Miss Forrester was saying, in
a pleasant, rather drawling voice. Her eyes were quite serious now, and
indeed friendly. Confusion seized him.
"I have less English to amuse myself with the ladies," he answered
wildly. Next moment, however, he regained that painful mastery of the
tongue which had won his promotion as agent, and stammered: "Pardon. I
would mean, I speak so badly as not to entertain her."
"Indeed, you speak very nicely," she rejoined, with such a smile as no
woman had ever troubled to bestow on him. "That will be so pleasant,
for my German is shocking."
Dazed by the compliment, by her manner of taking for granted that future
conversation which had seemed too good to come true, but above all by
her arch, provoking smile, Rudolph sat with his head in a whirl, feeling
that the wide eyes of all the second-cabiners were penetrating the
tumultuous secret of his breast. Again his English deserted, and left
him stammering. But Miss Forrester chatted steadily, appeared to
understand murmurs which he himself found obscure, and so restored his
confidence that before tiffin was over he talked no less gayly, his
honest face alight and glowing. She taught him the names of the strange
fruits before them; but though listening and questioning eagerly, he
could not afterward have told loquat from pumelo, or custard-apple
from papaya.
Nor could this young man, of methodical habits, ever have told how long
their voyage lasted. It passed, unreal and timeless, in a glorious mist,
a delighted fever: the background a blur of glossy white bulkheads and
iron rails, awnings that fluttered in the warm, languorous winds, an
infinite tropic ocean poignantly blue; the foreground, Miss Forrester.
Her white figure, trim and dashing; her round blue eyes, filled with coy
wonder, the arch innocence of a spoiled child; her pale, smooth cheeks,
rather plump, but coming oddly and enticingly to a point at the mouth
and tilted chin; her lips, somewhat too full, too red, but quick and
whimsical: he saw these all, and these only, in a bright focus,
listening meanwhile to a voice by turns languid and lively, with now and
then a curious liquid softness, perhaps insincere, yet dangerously
pleasant. Questioning, hinting, she played at motherly age and wisdom.
As for him, he never before knew how well he could talk, or how
engrossing his sober life, both in his native village on the Baltic and
afterward in Bremen, could prove to either himself or a stranger.
Yet he was not such a fool, he reflected, as to tell everything. So far
from trading confidences, she had told him only that she was bound
straight on to Hongkong; that curiosity alone had led her to travel
second-class, "for the delightful change, you know, from all such
formality"; and that she was "really more French than English." Her
reticence had the charm of an incognito; and taking this leaf from her
book, he gave himself out as a large, vaguely important person
journeying on a large, vague errand.
"But you are a griffin?" she had said, as they sat together at tea.
"Pardon?" he ventured, wary and alarmed, wondering whether he could
claim this unknown term as in character with his part.
"I mean," Miss Forrester explained, smiling, "it is your first visit to
the Far East?"
"Oh, yes," he replied eagerly, blushing. He would have given worlds to
say, "No."
"Griffins are such nice little monsters," she purred. "I like them."
Sometimes at night, waked by the snores of a fat Prussian in the upper
berth, he lay staring into the dark, while the ship throbbed in unison
with his excited thoughts. He was amazed at his happy recklessness. He
would never see her again; he was hurrying toward lonely and uncertain
shores; yet this brief voyage outvalued the rest of his life.
In time, they had left Penang,--another unheeded background for her
arch, innocent, appealing face,--and forged down the Strait of Malacca
in a flood of nebulous moonlight. It was the last night out from
Singapore. That veiled brightness, as they leaned on the rail, showed
her brown hair fluttering dimly, her face pale, half real, half magical,
her eyes dark and undefined pools of mystery. It was late; they had been
silent for a long time; and Rudolph felt that something beyond the
territory of words remained to be said, and that the one brilliant epoch
of his life now drew madly to a close.
"What do you think of it all?" the woman asked suddenly, gravely, as
though they had been isolated together in the deep spaces of the
same thought.
"I do not yet--Of what?" rejoined Rudolph, at a loss.
"Of all this." She waved an eloquent little gesture toward the
azure-lighted gulf.
"Oh," he said. "Of the world?"
"Yes," she answered slowly. "The world. Life." Her tone, subdued and
musical, conveyed in the mere words their full enigma and full meaning.
"All this that we see."
"Who can tell?" He took her seriously, and ransacked all his store of
second-hand philosophy for a worthy answer,--a musty store, dead and
pedantic, after the thrilling spirit of her words. "Why, I think--it
is--is it not all now the sense-manifest substance of our duty? Pardon.
I am obscure. '_Das versinnlichte Material unserer Pflicht_' No?"
Her clear laughter startled him.
"Oh, how moral!" she cried. "What a highly moral little griffin!"
She laughed again (but this time it was like the splash of water in a
deep well), and turned toward him that curiously tilted point of chin
and mouth, her eyes shadowy and mocking. She looked young again,--the
spirit of youth, of knowledge, of wonderful brightness and unbelief.
"Must we take it so very, very hard?" she coaxed. "Isn't it just a place
to be happy in?"
As through a tumult he heard, and recognized the wisdom of the ages.
"Because," she added, "it lasts such a little while--"
On the rail their hands suddenly touched. He was aware of nothing but
the nearness and pallor of her face, the darkness of her eyes shining up
at him. All his life seemed to have rushed concentrating into that one
instant of extreme trouble, happiness, trembling fascination.
Footsteps sounded on the deck behind them; an unwelcome voice called
jocosely:--
"Good efening!" The ship's doctor advanced with a roguish, paternal air.
"You see at the phosphor, not?"
Even as she whipped about toward the light, Rudolph had seen, with a
touch of wonder, how her face changed from a bitter frown to the most
friendly smile. The frown returned, became almost savage, when the fat
physician continued:--
"To see the phosphor is too much moon, Mrs. Forrester?"
Had the steamer crashed upon a reef, he would hardly have noticed such a
minor shipwreck. Mrs. Forrester? why, then--When the doctor, after
ponderous pleasantries, had waddled away aft, Rudolph turned upon her a
face of tragedy.
"Was that true?" he demanded grimly.
"Was what true?" she asked, with baby eyes of wonder, which no longer
deceived, but angered.
"What the doctor said." Rudolph's voice trembled. "The tittle--the title
he gave you."
"Why, of course," she laughed.
"And you did not tell me!" he began, with scorn.
"Don't be foolish," she cut in. From beneath her skirt the toe of a
small white shoe tapped the deck angrily. Of a sudden she laughed, and
raised a tantalizing face, merry, candid, and inscrutable. "Why, you
never asked me, and--and of course I thought you were saying it all
along. You have such a dear, funny way of pronouncing, you know."
He hesitated, almost believing; then, with a desperate gesture, wheeled
and marched resolutely aft. That night it was no Prussian snores which
kept him awake and wretched. "Everything is finished," he thought
abysmally. He lay overthrown, aching, crushed, as though pinned under
the fallen walls of his youth.
At breakfast-time, the ship lay still beside a quay where mad crowds of
brown and yellow men, scarfed, swathed, and turbaned in riotous colors,
worked quarreling with harsh cries, in unspeakable interweaving uproar.
The air, hot and steamy, smelled of strange earth. As Rudolph followed a
Malay porter toward the gang-plank, he was painfully aware that Mrs.
Forrester had turned from the rail and stood waiting in his path.
"Without saying good-by?" she reproached him. The injured wonder in her
eyes he thought a little overdone.
"Good-by." He could not halt, but, raising his cap stiffly, managed to
add, "A pleasant voyage," and passed on, feeling as though she had
murdered something.
He found himself jogging in a rickshaw, while equatorial rain beat like
down-pouring bullets on the tarpaulin hood, and sluiced the Chinaman's
oily yellow back. Over the heavy-muscled shoulders he caught glimpses of
sullen green foliage, ponderous and drooping; of half-naked barbarians
that squatted in the shallow caverns of shops; innumerable faces, black,
yellow, white, and brown, whirling past, beneath other tarpaulin hoods,
or at carriage windows, or shielded by enormous dripping wicker hats, or
bared to the pelting rain. Curious odors greeted him, as of sour
vegetables and of unknown rank substances burning. He stared like a
visionary at the streaming multitude of alien shapes.
The coolie swerved, stopped, tilted his shafts to the ground. Rudolph
entered a sombre, mouldy office, where the darkness rang with tiny
silver bells. Pig-tailed men in skull-caps, their faces calm as polished
ivory, were counting dollars endlessly over flying finger-tips. One of
these men paused long enough to give him a sealed dispatch,--the message
to which the ocean-bed, the Midgard ooze, had thrilled beneath his
tardy keel.
"Zimmerman recalled," the interpretation ran; "take his station; proceed
at once."
He knew the port only as forlorn and insignificant. It did not matter.
One consolation remained: he would never see her again.