THE WAR BOARD
"Rigmarole?" drawled Heywood, and abstained from glancing at Chantel.
"Dare say. However, Gilly, their rigmarole _may_ mean business. On that
supposition, I made my notes urgent to you chaps."
"Quite right," said Mr. Forrester, tugging his gray moustache, and
studying the floor. "Obviously. Rigmarole or not, your plan is
thoroughly sound: stock one house, and if the pinch comes, fortify."
Chantel drummed on Heywood's long table, and smiled quaintly, with eyes
which roved out at window, and from mast to bare mast of the few small
junks that lay moored against the distant bank. He bore himself, to-day,
like a lazy cock of the walk. The rest of the council, Nesbit, Teppich,
Sturgeon, Kempner, and the great snow-headed padre, surrounded the table
with heat-worn, thoughtful faces. When they looked up, their eyes went
straight to Heywood at the head; so that, though deferring to his
elders, the youngest man plainly presided.
Chantel turned suddenly, merrily, his teeth flashing in a laugh.
"If we are then afraid, let us all take a jonc down the river," he
scoffed, "or the next vessel for Hongkong!"
Gilly's tired, honest eyes saw only the plain statement.
"Impossible." He shook his bullet head. "We can't run away from a rumor,
you know. Can we, now? The women, perhaps. But we should lose face no
end--horribly."
"Let's come to facts," urged Heywood. "Arms, for example. What have we?
To my knowledge, one pair of good rifles, mine and Sturgeon's.
Ammunition--uncertain, but limited. Two revolvers: my Webley.450, and
that little thing of Nesbit's, which is not man-stopping. Shot-guns?
Every one but you, padre: fit only for spring snipe, anyway, or bamboo
partridge. Hackh has just taken over, from this house, the only real
weapons in the settlement--one dozen old Mausers, Argentine, calibre.765.
My predecessor left 'em, and three cases of cartridges. I've kept
the guns oiled, and will warrant the lot sound.--Now, who'll lend me
spare coolies, and stuff for sand-bags?"
"Over where?" puffed Sturgeon. "Where's he taking your Mausers?"
"Nunnery, of course."
"Oh, I say!" Mr. Forrester looked up, with an injured air. "As the
senior here, except Dr. Earle, I naturally thought the choice would be
my house."
"Right!" cried two or three voices from the foot of the table. "It
should be--Farthest off--"
All talked at once, except Chantel, who eyed them leniently, and smiled
as at so many absurd children. Kempner--a pale, dogged man, with a
pompous white moustache which pouted and bristled while he spoke--rose
and delivered a pointless oration. "Ignoring race and creed," he droned,
"we must stand together--"
Heywood balanced a pencil, twirled it, and at last took to drawing. On
the polished wood he scratched, with great pains, the effigy of a pig,
whose snout blared forth a gale of quarter-notes.
"Whistle away!" he muttered; then resumed, as if no one had interrupted:
"Very good of you, Gilly. But with your permission, I see five
points.--Here's a rough sketch, made some time ago."
He tossed on the table a sheet of paper. Forrester spread it, frowning,
while the others leaned across or craned over his chair.
"All out of whack, you see," explained the draughtsman; "but here are my
points, Gilly. One: your house lies quite inland, with four sides to
defend: the river and marsh give Rudie's but two and a fraction. Boats?
Not hardly: we'd soon stop that, as you'll see, if they dare.
Anyhow,--point two,--your house is all hillocks behind, and shops
roundabout: here's just one low ridge, and the rest clear field. Third:
the Portuguese built a well of sorts in the courtyard; water's deadly, I
dare say, but your place has no well whatever. And as to four,
suppose--in a sudden alarm, say, those cut off by land could run another
half-chance to reach the place by river.--By the way, the nunnery has a
bell to ring."
Gilbert Forrester shoved the map along to his neighbor, and cleared his
throat.
"Gentlemen," he declared slowly, "you once did me the honor to say that
in--in a certain event, you would consider me as acting head. Frankly, I
confess, my plans were quite--ah!--vague. I wish to--briefly, to resign,
in favor of this young--ah--bachelor."
"Don't go rotting me," complained Heywood, and his sallow cheeks turned
ruddy. "I merely bring up these points. And five is this: your
compound's very cramped, where the nunnery could shelter the goodly
blooming fellowship of native converts."
Chantel laughed heartily, and stretched his legs at ease under the
table.
[Illustration: Portuguese Nunnery:--Sketch Map.]
"What strategy!" he chuckled, preening his moustache. "Your mythical
siege--it will be brief! For me, I vote no to that: no rice-Christians
filling their bellies--eating us into a surrender!" He made a pantomime
of chop-sticks. "A compound full, eating, eating!"
One or two nodded, approving the retort. Heywood, slightly lifting his
chin, stared at the speaker coldly, down the length of their
council-board. The red in his cheeks burned darker.
"Our everlasting shame, then," he replied quietly. "It will be
everlasting, if we leave these poor devils in the lurch, after cutting
them loose from their people. Excuse me, padre, but it's no time to
mince our words. We made them strangers in their own land. Desert 'em?
Damned if we do!"
No one made reply. The padre, who had looked up, looked down quickly,
musing, and smoothed his white hair with big fingers that
somewhat trembled.
"Besides," continued the speaker, in a tone of apology, "we'll need 'em
to man the works. Meantime, you chaps must lend coolies, eh? Look here."
With rising spirits, he traced an eager finger along the map. "I must
run a good strong bamboo scaffold along the inside wall, with plenty of
sand-bags ready for loopholing--specially atop the servants' quarters
and pony-shed, and in that northeast angle, where we'll throw up a
mound or platform.--What do you say? Suggestions, please!"
Chantel, humming a tune, reached for his helmet, and rose. He paused,
struck a match, and in an empty glass, shielding the flame against the
breeze of the punkah, lighted a cigarette.
"Since we have appointed our dictator," he began amiably, "we may
repose--"
From the landing, without, a coolie bawled impudently for the master of
the house.
"Wutzler!" said Heywood, jumping up. "I mean--his messenger."
He was gone a noticeable time, but came back smiling.
"Good news, Gilly." He held aloft a scrap of Chinese paper, scrawled on
with pencil. "We need expect nothing these ten days. They wait for more
ammunition--'more shoots,' the text has it. The Hak Kaú--their Black
Dog--is a bronze cannon, nine feet long, cast at Rotterdam in 1607. He
writes, 'I saw it in shed last night, but is gone to-day. O.W.'
Gentlemen, for a timid man, our friend does not scamp his reports.
Thorough, rather? Little O.W. is O.K."
Chantel, still humming, had moved toward the door. All at once he
halted, and stared from the landward window. Cymbals clashed
somewhere below.
"What's this?" he cried sharply. The noise drew nearer, more brazen,
and with it a clatter of hoofs. "Here come swordsmen!"
"To play with you, I suppose. Your fame has spread." Heywood spoke with
a slow, mischievous drawl; but he crossed the room quickly. "What's up?"
Below, by the open gate, a gay grotesque rider reined in a piebald pony,
and leaning down, handed to the house-boy a ribbon of scarlet paper.
Behind him, to the clash of cymbals, a file of men in motley robes
swaggered into position, wheeled, and formed the ragged front of a
Falstaff regiment. Overcome by the scarlet ribbon, the long-coated "boy"
bowed, just as through the gate, like a top-heavy boat swept under an
arch, came heaving an unwieldy screened chair, borne by four broad men:
not naked and glistening coolies, but "Tail-less Horses" in proud
livery. Before they could lower their shafts, Heywood ran clattering
down the stairs.
Slowly, cautiously, like a little fat old woman, there clambered out
from the broadcloth box a rotund man, in flowing silks, and a conical,
tasseled hat of fine straw. He waddled down the compound path, shading
with his fan a shrewd, bland face, thoughtful, yet smooth as a babe's.
The watchers in the upper room saw Heywood greet him with extreme
ceremony, and heard the murmur of "Pray you, I pray you," as with
endless bows and deprecations the two men passed from sight, within the
house. A long time dragged by. The visitor did not join the company, but
from another room, now and then, sounded his clear-pitched voice, full
of odd and courteous modulations. When at last the conference ended, and
their unmated footsteps crossed the landing, a few sentences echoed from
the stairway.
"That is all," declared the voice, pleasantly. "The Chow Ceremonial
says, 'That man is unwise who knowingly throws away precious things.'
And in the Analects we read, 'There is merit in dispatch.'"
Heywood's reply was lost, except the words, "stupid people."
"In every nation," agreed the placid voice. "It is true. What says the
Viceroy of Hupeh: 'They see a charge of bird-shot, and think they are
tasting broiled owl.'--Walk slowly!"
"A safe walk, Your Excellency."
The cymbals struck up, the cavalcade, headed by ragamuffin lictors with
whips, went swaying past the gate. Heywood, when he returned,
was grinning.
"Wonderful old chap!" he exclaimed. "Hates this station, I fancy, much
as we hate it."
"Anything to concern us?" asked Gilly.
"Intimated he could beat me at chess," laughed the young man, "and will
bet me a jar of peach wine to a box of Manila cigars!"
Chantel, from a derisive dumb-show near the window, had turned to waddle
solemnly down the room. At sight of Heywood's face he stopped guiltily.
"Chantel!" All the laughter was gone from the voice and the hard gray
eyes. "Yesterday we humored you tin-soldier fashion, but to-day let's
put away childish things.--I like that magistrate, plainly, a damned
deal better than I like you. When you or I show one half his ability,
we're free to mock him--in my house."
For the first time within the memory of any man present, the mimic
wilted.
"I--I did not know," he stammered, "that old man was your friend." Very
quiet, and a little flushed, he took his seat among the others.
"I like him no end." Still more quiet, Heywood appealed to the company.
"Part for his hard luck--stuck down, a three-year term, in this
neglected hole. Enemies in power, higher up. Fang, the Sword-Pen, in
great favor up there.--What? Oh, said nothing directly, of course.
Friendly call, and all that. But his indirections speak straight enough.
We understood each other. The dregs of the town are all stirred
up--bottomside topside--danger point. He, in case--you know--can't give
us any help. No means, no recourse. His chief's fairly itching to
cashier him.--Spoke highly of your hospital work, padre, but said, 'Even
good deeds may be misconstrued.'--In short, gentlemen, without saying a
word, he tells us honestly in plain terms, 'Sorry, but look out for
yourselves.'"
A beggar rattled his bowl of cash in the road, below; from up the river
sounded wailing cries.
"Did he mention," said the big padre, presently, "the case against my
man, Chok Chung?"
Heywood's eyes became evasive, his words reluctant.
"The magistrate dodged that--that unpleasant subject. The case was
forced on him. Some understrapper tried it. Let's be fair."
Dr. Earle's great elbows left the board. Without rising, he seemed to
grow in bulk and stature, and send his vision past the company, into
those things which are not, to confound the things which are.
"For myself, it does not matter. 'He buries His workmen, but carries on
His work.'" The man spoke in a heavy, broken voice, as though it were
his body that suffered. "But it comes hard to hear, from a young man, so
good a friend, after many years"--The deep-set eyes returned, and with a
sudden lustre, made a sharp survey from face to face. "If I have made my
flock a remnant--aliens--rejected--tell me, what shall I do? Tell me. I
have shut eyes and conscience, and never meddled, never!--not even when
money was levied for the village idols. And here's a man beaten, cast
into prison--"
He shoved both fists out on the table, and bowed his white head.
"My safety is nothing. But yours--and his.--To keep one, I desert the
other. Either way." The padre groaned. "What must I choose?"
"We're all quite helpless," said Heywood, gently. "Quite. It's a long
way to the nearest gunboat."
"Tell me," repeated the other, stubbornly.
At the same moment it happened that the cries came louder along the
river-bank, and that some one bounded up the stairs.
The runner was Rudolph. All morning he had gone about his errands very
calmly, playing the man of action, in a new philosophy learned
overnight. But now he forgot to imitate his teacher, and darted in, so
headlong that all the dogs came with him, bouncing and barking.
"Look," he called, stumbling toward the farther window, while Flounce
the terrier and a wonk puppy ran nipping at his heels. "Come, look at
them! Out on the river!"