UNDER FIRE
The desert was sometimes Gobi, sometimes Sahara, but always an infinite
stretch of sand that floated up and up in a stifling layer, like the
tide. Rudolph, desperately choked, continued leaping upward against an
insufferable power of gravity, or straining to run against the force of
paralysis. The desert rang with phantom voices,--Chinese voices that
mocked him, chanting of pestilence, intoning abhorrently in French.
He woke to find a knot of bed-clothes smothering him. To his first
unspeakable relief succeeded the astonishment of hearing the voices
continue in shrill chorus, the tones Chinese, the words, in louder
fragments, unmistakably French. They sounded close at hand, discordant
matins sung by a mob of angry children. Once or twice a weary, fretful
voice scolded feebly: "Un-peu-de-s'lence! Un-peu-de-s'lence!" Rudolph
rose to peep through the heavy jalousies, but saw nothing more than
sullen daylight, a flood of vertical rain, and thin rivulets coursing
down a tiled roof below. The morning was dismally cold.
"Jolivet's kids wake you?" Heywood, in a blue kimono, nodded from the
doorway. "Public nuisance, that school. Quite needless, too. Some bally
French theory, you know, sphere of influence, and that rot. Game played
out up here, long ago, but they keep hanging on.--Bath's ready, when you
like." He broke out laughing. "Did you climb into the water-jar,
yesterday, before dinner? Boy reports it upset. You'll find the dipper
more handy.--How did you ever manage? One leg at a time?"
Echoes of glee followed his disappearance. Rudolph, blushing, prepared
to descend into the gloomy vault of ablution. Charcoal fumes, however,
and the glow of a brazier on the dark floor below, not only revived all
his old terror, but at the stair-head halted him with a new.
"Is the water safe?" he called.
Heywood answered impatiently from his bedroom.
"Nothing safe in this world, Mr. Hackh. User's risk." An inaudible
mutter ended with, "Keep clean, anyway."
At breakfast, though the acrid smoke was an enveloping reminder, he made
the only reference to their situation.
"Rain at last: too late, though, to flush out the gutters. We needed it
a month ago.--I say, Hackh, if you don't mind, you might as well cheer
up. From now on, it's pure heads and tails. We're all under fire
together." Glancing out of window at the murky sky, he added
thoughtfully, "One excellent side to living without hope, maskee
fashion: one isn't specially afraid. I'll take you to your office, and
you can make a start. Nothing else to do, is there?"
Dripping bearers and shrouded chairs received them on the lower floor,
carried them out into a chill rain that drummed overhead and splashed
along the compound path in silver points. The sunken flags in the road
formed a narrow aqueduct that wavered down a lane of mire. A few
grotesque wretches, thatched about with bamboo matting, like bottles, or
like rosebushes in winter, trotted past shouldering twin baskets. The
smell of joss-sticks, fish, and sour betel, the subtle sweetness of
opium, grew constantly stronger, blended with exhalations of ancient
refuse, and (as the chairs jogged past the club, past filthy groups
huddling about the well in a marketplace, and onward into the black yawn
of the city gate) assailed the throat like a bad and lasting taste. Now,
in the dusky street, pent narrowly by wet stone walls, night seemed to
fall, while fresh waves of pungent odor overwhelmed and steeped the
senses. Rudolph's chair jostled through hundreds and hundreds of
Chinese, all alike in the darkness, who shuffled along before with
switching queues, or flattened against the wall to stare, almost nose
to nose, at the passing foreigner. With chairpoles backing into one shop
or running ahead into another, with raucous cries from the coolies, he
swung round countless corners, bewildered in a dark, leprous, nightmare
bazaar. Overhead, a slit of cloudy sky showed rarely; for the most part,
he swayed along indoors, beneath a dingy lattice roof. All points of the
compass vanished; all streets remained alike,--the same endless vista of
mystic characters, red, black, and gold, on narrow suspended tablets,
under which flowed the same current of pig-tailed men in blue and dirty
white. From every shop, the same yellow faces stared at him, the same
elfin children caught his eye for a half-second to grin or grimace, the
same shaven foreheads bent over microscopical tasks in the dark. At
first, Rudolph thought the city loud and brawling; but resolving this
impression to the hideous shouts of his coolies parting the crowd, he
detected, below or through their noise, from all the long
cross-corridors a wide and appalling silence. Gradually, too, small
sounds relieved this: the hammering of brass-work, the steady rattle of
a loom, or the sing-song call and mellow bell of some burdened hawker,
bumping past, his swinging baskets filled with a pennyworth of trifles.
But still the silence daunted Rudolph in this astounding vision, this
masque of unreal life, of lost daylight, of annihilated direction, of
placid turmoil and multifarious identity, made credible only by the
permanence of nauseous smells.
Somewhere in the dark maze, the chairs halted, under a portal black and
heavy as a Gate of Dreams. And as by the anachronism of dreams
there hung, among its tortuous symbols, the small, familiar
placard--"Fliegelman and Sons, Office." Heywood led the way, past two
ducking Chinese clerks, into a sombre room, stone-floored, furnished
stiffly with a row of carved chairs against the wall, lighted coldly by
roof-windows of placuna, and a lamp smoking before some commercial god
in his ebony and tinsel shrine.
"There," he said, bringing Rudolph to an inner chamber, or dark little
pent-house, where another draughty lamp flickered on a European desk.
"Here's your cell. I'm off--call for you later. Good luck!"--Wheeling in
the doorway, he tossed a book, negligently.--"Caught! You may as well
start in, eh?--'Cantonese Made Worse,'"
To his departing steps Rudolph listened as a prisoner, condemned, might
listen to the last of all earthly visitors. Peering through a kind of
butler's window, he saw beyond the shrine his two pallid subordinates,
like mystic automatons, nodding and smoking by the doorway. Beyond
them, across a darker square like a cavern-mouth, flitted the living
phantoms of the street. It seemed a fit setting for his fears. "I am
lost," he thought; lost among goblins, marooned in the age of barbarism,
shut in a labyrinth with a Black Death at once actual and mediaeval: he
dared not think of Home, but flung his arms on the littered desk, and
buried his face.
On the tin pent-roof, the rain trampled inexorably.
At last, mustering a shaky resolution, he set to work ransacking the
tumbled papers. Happily, Zimmerman had left all in confusion. The very
hopelessness of his accounts proved a relief. Working at high tension,
Rudolph wrestled through disorder, mistakes, falsification; and little
by little, as the sorted piles grew and his pen traveled faster, the old
absorbing love of method and dispatch--the stay, the cordial flagon of
troubled man--gave him strength to forget.
At times, felt shoes scuffed the stone floor without, and high, scolding
voices rose, exchanging unfathomable courtesy with his clerks. One after
another, strange figures, plump and portly in their colored robes,
crossed his threshold, nodding their buttoned caps, clasping their hands
hidden in voluminous sleeves.
"My 'long speakee my goo' flien'," chanted each of these apparitions;
and each, after a long, slow discourse that ended more darkly than it
began, retired with fatuous nods and smirks of satisfaction, leaving
Rudolph dismayed by a sense of cryptic negotiation in which he had been
found wanting.
Noon brought the only other interval, when two solemn "boys" stole in
with curry and beer. Eat he could not in this lazaret, but sipped a
little of the dark Kirin brew, and plunged again into his researches.
Alone with his lamp and rustling papers, he fought through perplexities,
now whispering, now silent, like a student rapt in some midnight fervor.
"What ho! Mustn't work this fashion!" Heywood's voice woke him, sudden
as a gust of sharp air. "Makee finish!"
The summons was both welcome and unwelcome; for as their chairs jostled
homeward through the reeking twilight, Rudolph felt the glow of work
fade like the mockery of wine. The strange seizure returned,--exile,
danger, incomprehensibility, settled down upon him, cold and steady as
the rain. Tea, at Heywood's house, was followed by tobacco, tobacco by
sherry, and this by a dinner from yesterday's game-bag. The two men said
little, sitting dejected, as if by agreement. But when Heywood rose, he
changed into gayety as a man slips on a jacket.
"Now, then, for the masked ball! I mean, we can't carry these long
faces to the club, can we? Ladies' Night--what larks!" He caught up his
cap, with a grimace. "The Lord loveth a cheerful liar. Come ahead!"
On the way, he craned from his chair to shout, in the darkness:--
"I say! If you can do a turn of any sort, let the women have it. All the
fun they get. Be an ass, like the rest of us. Maskee how silly! Mind
you, it's all hands, these concerts!"
No music, but the click of ivory and murmur of voices came down the
stairway of the club. At first glance, as Rudolph rose above the floor,
the gloomy white loft seemed vacant as ever; at second glance,
embarrassingly full of Europeans. Four strangers grounded their cues
long enough to shake his hand. "Mr. Nesbit,--Sturgeon--Herr
Kempner--Herr Teppich,"--he bowed stiffly to each, ran the battery of
their inspection, and found himself saluting three other persons at the
end of the room, under a rosy, moon-bellied lantern. A gray matron,
stout, and too tightly dressed for comfort, received him uneasily, a
dark-eyed girl befriended him with a look and a quiet word, while a tall
man, nodding a vigorous mop of silver hair, crushed his hand in a great
bony fist.
"Mrs. Earle," Heywood was saying, "Miss Drake, and--how are you,
padre?--Dr. Earle."
"Good-evening," boomed the giant, in a deep and musical bass. "We are
very glad, very glad." His voice vibrated through the room, without
effort. It struck one with singular force, like the shrewd, kind
brightness of his eyes, light blue, and oddly benevolent, under brows
hard as granite. "Sit down, Mr. Hackh," he ordered genially, "and give
us news of the other world! I mean," he laughed, "west of Suez.
Smoking's allowed--here, try that!"
He commanded them, as it were, to take their ease,--the women among
cushions on a rattan couch, the men stretched in long chairs. He put
questions, indolent, friendly questions, opening vistas of reply and
recollection; so that Rudolph, answering, felt the first return of
homely comfort. A feeble return, however, and brief: in the pauses of
talk, misgiving swarmed in his mind, like the leaping vermin of last
night. The world into which he had been thrown still appeared
disorderly, incomprehensible, and dangerous. The plague--it still
recurred in his thoughts like a sombre motive; these friendly people
were still strangers; and for a moment now and then their talk, their
smiles, the click of billiards, the cool, commonplace behavior, seemed a
foolhardy unconcern, as of men smoking in a powder magazine.
"Clearing a bit, outside," called Nesbit. A little, wiry fellow, with
cheerful Cockney speech, he stood chalking his cue at a window. "I say,
what's the matter one piecee picnic this week? Pink Pagoda, eh? Mrs.
Gilly's back, you know."
"No, is she?" wheezed the fat Sturgeon, with something like enthusiasm.
"Now we'll brighten up! By Jove, that's good news. That's worth hearing.
Eh, Heywood?"
"Rather!" drawled Rudolph's friend, with an alacrity that seemed half
cynical, half enigmatic.
A quick tread mounted the stairs, and into the room rose Dr. Chantel. He
bowed gracefully to the padre's group, but halted beside the players.
Whatever he said, they forgot their game, and circled the table to
listen. He spoke earnestly, his hands fluttering in nervous gestures.
"Something's up," grumbled Heywood, "when the doctor forgets to pose."
Behind Chantel, as he wheeled, heaved the gray bullet-head and sturdy
shoulders of Gilly.
"Alone?" called the padre. "Why, where's the Mem?"
He came up with evident weariness, but replied cheerfully:--
"She's very sorry, and sent chin-chins all round. But to-night--Her
journey, you know. She's resting.--I hope we've not delayed
the concert?"
"Last man starts it!" Heywood sprang up, flung open a battered piano,
and dragged Chantel to the stool. "Come, Gilly, your forfeit!"
The elder man blushed, and coughed.
"Why, really," he stammered. "Really, if you wish me to!"
Heywood slid back into his chair, grinning.
"Proud as an old peacock," he whispered to Rudolph. "Peacock's voice,
too."
Dr. Chantel struck a few jangling chords, and skipping adroitly over
sick notes, ran a flourish. The billiard-players joined the circle, with
absent, serious faces. The singer cleared his throat, took on a
preternatural solemnity, and began. In a dismal, gruff voice, he
proclaimed himself a miner, deep, deep down:--
"And few, I trow, of my being know,
And few that an atom care!"
His hearers applauded this gloomy sentiment, till his cheeks flushed
again with honest satisfaction. But in the full sweep of a brilliant
interlude, Chantel suddenly broke down.
"I cannot," he declared sharply. As he turned on the squealing stool,
they saw his face white and strangely wrought. "I had meant," he said,
with painful precision, "to say nothing to-night, and act as--I cannot.
Judge you, what I feel."
He got uncertainly to his feet, hesitating.
"Ladies, you will not be alarmed." The four players caught his eye, and
nodded. "It is well that you know. There is no danger here, more than--I
am since disinfected. Monsieur Jolivet, my compatriot--You see, you
understand. Yes, the plague."
For a space, the distant hum of the streets invaded the room. Then
Heywood's book of music slapped the floor like a pistol-shot.
"You left him!" He bounced from his chair, raging. "You--Pêng! Where's
my cap?"
Quick as he was, the dark-eyed girl stood blocking his way.
"Not you, Mr. Heywood," she said quietly. "I must go stay with him."
They confronted each other, man and woman, as if for a combat of will.
The outbreak of voices was cut short; the whole company stood, like
Homeric armies, watching two champions. Chantel, however, broke
the silence.
"Nobody must go." He eyed them all, gravely. "I left him, yes. He does
not need any one. Personne. Very sudden. He went to the school sick this
morning. Swollen axillae--the poor fool, not to know!--et
puis--enfin--He is dead."
Heywood pitched his cap on the green field of the billiard-cloth.
"The poor pedagogue!" he said bitterly. "_He_ was going Home."
Sudden, hot and cold, like the thrust of a knife, it struck Rudolph that
he had heard the voice of this first victim,--the peevish voice which
cried so weakly for a little silence, at early daylight, that very
morning. A little silence: and he had received the great.
A gecko fell from the ceiling, with a tiny thump that made all start. He
had struck the piano, and the strings answered with a faint, aeolian
confusion. Then, as they regarded one another silently, a rustle, a
flurry, sounded on the stairs. A woman stumbled into the loft, sobbing,
crying something inarticulate, as she ran blindly toward them, with
white face and wild eyes. She halted abruptly, swayed as though to fall,
and turned, rather by instinct than by vision, to the other women.
"Bertha!" protested Gilly, with a helpless stare. "My dear!"
"I couldn't stay!" she cried. "The amah told me. Why did you ever let me
come back? Oh, do something--help me!"
The face and the voice came to Rudolph like another trouble across a
dream. He knew them, with a pang. This trembling, miserable heap, flung
into the arms of the dark-eyed girl, was Mrs. Forrester.
"Go on," said the girl, calmly. She had drawn the woman down beside her
on the rattan couch, and clasping her like a child, nodded toward the
piano. "Go on, as if the doctor hadn't--hadn't stopped."
Heywood was first to obey.
"Come, Chantel, chantez! Here's your song." He took the stool in
leap-frog fashion, and struck a droll simultaneous discord. "Come on.--
Well, then, catch me on the chorus!"
"Pour qu' j' finisse
Mon service
Au Tonkin je suis parti!"
To a discreet set of verses, he rattled a bravado accompaniment.
Presently Chantel moved to his side, and, with the same spirit, swung
into the chorus. The tumbled white figure on the couch clung to her
refuge, her bright hair shining below the girl's quiet, thoughtful face.
She was shaken with convulsive regularity.
In his riot of emotions, Rudolph found an over-mastering shame. A
picture returned,--the Strait of Malacca, this woman in the blue
moonlight, a Mistress of Life, rejoicing, alluring,--who was now the
single coward in the room. But was she? The question was quick and
revolting. As quickly, a choice of sides was forced on him. He
understood these people, recalled Heywood's saying, and with that, some
story of a regiment which lay waiting in the open, and sang while the
bullets picked and chose. All together: as now these half-dozen men
were roaring cheerfully:--
"Ma Tonkikí, ma Tonkikí, ma Tonkinoise,
Yen a d'autr's qui m' font les doux yeux,
Mais c'est ell' que j'aim' le mieux!"
The new recruit joined them, awkwardly.