LARKIN RETIRES FROM BUSINESS.
When Fred Larkin grasped the full significance of the situation in which
he found himself, on awaking in the Manchurian hut, he felt that he was
nearer death than ever before in all his hardy, adventurous life. At
Santiago, indeed, he had thought himself led out to execution, but this
had proved to be a mistake. The Spaniards were but conducting him, under
a flag of truce, to the American lines, where he was exchanged for a
prisoner of war, one of their own countrymen. In this lonely hovel, in
one of the remotest and dreariest districts of Manchuria, cut off from
all hope of help, not only by the leagues that lay between him and the
travelled road to Feng-Weng-Chang, but by the storm which now shook the
hut with its fierce blasts; surrounded by lawless men who thirsted for
gold and cared not a whiff from their pipes for a human life; trapped by
the cunning guide, and completely at the mercy of his wolfish captors as
he lay before them pinioned hand and foot; he realised in a swift flash
of thought that he could be saved by little short of a miracle. Still he
would try. He was not a man to give up while the faintest shred of hope
remained.
"What do you want, Kanuka?" he asked quietly, looking his treacherous
guide straight in the eye.
The villain hesitated, and Fred knew his life hung by a hair. The blade
did not fall.
"We want everything you have, everything!" said Kanuka. "If you resist
we kill you."
"You would gain nothing by that," said the prisoner. "I am perfectly
helpless. Who are--your friends?"
"They are not my friends; they are my men. If I lift my finger to them,
you are dead. Is it not so?" he added, turning to the motley crew and
speaking in his own tongue.
A low snarl went round the circle, and they showed their teeth. They
drew still nearer, and fingered the hafts of their knives, which Fred
could see sticking in their girdles. Two of the men carried guns. One of
the band, younger than the rest, seemed to have no weapons, and remained
in the background. The old woman had succeeded in getting possession of
the watch and dangled it so that the light shone upon it.
"I don't doubt your word, Kanuka," observed Fred in the same calm, even
tones. "Those followers of yours seem quite willing to finish up the
job. But you know better than that. _You_ are an intelligent man."
The guide could not conceal a gratified expression, and drew himself up
a little.
"_You_ know," continued the reporter, "that if I should be killed there
would be a hue and cry after the American war correspondent. The
newspaper I represent would spend a fortune in hunting down every man
that took part in the murder. Very likely the United States Government
would take the matter up, and you would be caught and executed, every
man of you, at Pekin, if it took ten years. Probably you remember what
happened to the men that put two or three American missionaries to
death, a few years ago? Yes, I thought so. And the Chinese method of
execution is so very unpleasant, in such cases!"
Kanuka stood erect, motioned back his men, and gnawed his moustache,
frowning irresolutely.
"You joke!" said he, with a meaning gesture of his knife.
"Joke? Not a bit of it. I never felt less like joking," said Fred
honestly. "I want to get out of this scrape alive, and to do that, I
must save you. If I die, you die, and the old lady and your hopeful
crowd there, as sure as fate. Pekin never lets an international offence
go; and if Pekin would, Washington wouldn't. You know that as well as I
do."
"What you propose?" asked the chief.
"Well, as I said, I can't help your taking all my worldly goods," said
the reporter. "The next thing is to get rid of me without imperilling
your own head--or limbs," he added significantly. The bandit shuddered
in spite of himself. He had witnessed the execution of a Boxer murderer,
near Pekin. Fred went on: "I would suggest that as soon as the storm
will permit you to move--I assure you I am ready to take considerable
risk on the road--you take me, blindfolded if you wish, to some point
from which I can strike out for the settlements. You, meanwhile, with
your men, could make tracks for parts unknown--of which there happens to
be a good supply within easy reach of this forsaken hole."
"You would inform on us," growled the ex-guide. "We should have Japanese
police on our trail in twenty-four hours."
"I would give you my word of honour----"
The rascal shrugged his shoulders. "I would not trust you. You newspaper
men tell what stories you like."
Fred flushed, and felt an overpowering desire to plant one good blow
between the man's sulky, sneering eyes.
"Oh, well," he said, "settle it yourself. You asked my advice and I've
given it. When the Chinese authorities are getting ready to deal with
you, don't blame _me_, that's all."
Kanuka turned to his men and talked to them rapidly and in low tones. So
far as Fred could judge, the old crone and the youngest of the bandits,
who, he afterward learned, was her son, were advocating his liberation.
The rest clamoured for blood. The chief seemed undecided, and fingered
his knife nervously. At last he spoke to his followers sharply, with an
abrupt gesture of dismissal. To Fred's relief they all filed out,
leaving him alone with the chief.
"They think it would be foolish to let you go," said the latter. "Dead
men tell no tales. But they are beasts--pooh! As you say, I am an
intelligent man. You shall not die to-night. In the morning we shall
see."
He knelt again beside his prisoner and rummaged his pockets thoroughly,
drawing out their contents and surveying them by the light of the lamp.
The papers he threw contemptuously into the fireplace; the silver change
and small articles he thrust into his own pouch. Fortunately Fred had
taken a purse containing about fifty dollars worth of gold pieces, to
use on his trip. To the Manchurian this was an enormous sum of money,
and it did not occur to him to examine his captive's belt, which
contained a much larger amount.
"Look here, old chap," said Fred, as Kanuka rose to his feet with his
plunder, "ease up these ropes a little, will you? They cut me, and I
want to sleep."
The man gave a contemptuous grunt, and, bestowing a kick on the helpless
prisoner, retired without a word. Again Fred's blood boiled, but he
realised his utter helplessness, and lay quietly, trying to concoct some
plan for escape, or for action, on the following day.
It was evident that he had fallen into the hands of that dangerous and
as yet only partly understood power, the Boxer element of north-eastern
China. In 1901 these bandits, or highwaymen,--for such they really were,
and are--terrorised a district extending from Newchwang to Kirin. Their
operations were so systematic and successful that Chinese as well as
foreign merchants finally had come to recognise their authority, and it
is said that an office was actually established in the port of Newchwang
where persons desiring to import goods might secure insurance against
molestation from the robbers. When the insurance was paid for, the
bandit agent gave the merchant a document and a little flag, and with
this document in his possession, and the flag nailed to his cart or
boat, he travelled in safety.
As soon as the real Boxer movement was disposed of by the Powers, and
by China herself, the Russians undertook the suppression of this
systematic brigandage, by which some thousands of outlaws were living in
insolent security. Moukden was garrisoned with twelve thousand soldiers,
and troops took the field against the robbers. In less than six weeks
three thousand bandits were killed and nearly as many captured. The
remainder scattered and fled to the fastnesses of the mountains, where
they were hunted like wild beasts. As an organised force, they were,
indeed, "suppressed"; but strong gangs of criminals escaped, and during
the early months of the Japanese war they gained courage and assumed
their unlawful calling with something of their former boldness.
Fred knew all this--he had followed the recent history of China
carefully--and he had no doubt whatever that he had fallen into the
hands of one of the scattered bands of this still powerful organisation.
He knew, moreover, that a more daring and remorseless set of men never
gained their living by highway robbery than these same bandits, through
whose agent, Kanuka, they had so cleverly entrapped him.
Revolving these things in his mind and trying to concoct some sort of
plan for escape, the reporter at last fell asleep from sheer exhaustion,
in spite of the pain caused by his bonds, and the presence of two
bandits who had remained to watch the prisoner.
When he awoke it was broad daylight. The mistress of the hut was
occupied in preparing another seething mess over the fire, exactly as
she had been when he entered the hut. Fred felt lame and sore from head
to foot, and soon discovered, moreover, that he had taken a severe cold.
He was hot and feverish, and had a weak longing for his mother's cool,
soft hands upon his burning forehead.
The old hag presently lifted the pot from the fire, groaning as she did
so.
"I wish I could help you, ma'am," said Fred, trying to assume a cheerful
tone, "but 'circumstances over which I have no control,' you know!"
She seemed to gather the import of his words--perhaps remembering his
courteous assistance on the preceding night--and dishing out a portion
of the nauseous mess offered it to him. When she saw that he was so
tightly bound that he could not help himself to food she uttered an
exclamation in which he recognised the first hint of pity among his
captors. Looking over her shoulder with evident apprehension, she freed
his right arm, and when he indicated with a feeble smile and shake of
his head that it was benumbed, she rubbed it with a not unwomanly touch
until he could use it and feed himself. Having forced down a little of
the distasteful food, to avoid hurting her feelings, he lay back on his
couch and motioned to her to lay the rope lightly over his arm, giving
it its former appearance of confinement. This she did at once, and not
too soon, for the whole gang of seven men, including Kanuka, trooped in
for their breakfast a minute later.
The storm continued through the day, and Fred found his condition
unchanged, save that he was allowed to walk about the room a little,
under guard of three of the ugliest-looking of the bandits. As night
came on once more, his feverishness increased. He felt faint and giddy.
He had no doubt that his drink was drugged the day before, and it was
quite possible that the process--though for what purpose he could not
guess--was being kept up. He was too feeble to care much what he ate or
drank. All he wanted was to be left alone.
At about midnight on the second night in the hut, as the sick man was
tossing on his filthy bed, the inner door of the room opened softly, and
the woman appeared, shading the flame of the lamp with her hand. Her
son, who had been left on guard, was standing silently by the window,
gun in hand. The aged crone now knelt beside Fred, and noiselessly cast
off the ropes, which had been tied with less caution than at first, it
being deemed impossible that the captive, weakened as he was, could make
his escape. Fred managed to gain his feet, and stood stiffly, half
supported by the woman. She led him to the outer door, which she opened.
The stars were shining, and it was bitter cold. The young bandit now
slipped around the corner of the house and presently reappeared with one
of the ponies, upon which Fred managed to scramble. The old woman gave
the reporter a soft pat on the back and whispered something to her son,
who stooped and kissed her! Then she went into the house, wiping her
eyes on her ragged skirt, and leaving the two men outside, free.
Fred soon found that he could not sit upright in the saddle without
help, and the bandit, slinging his gun over his back, put his arm around
the rider and so held him on, while the pony picked his way down the
mountain trail. In places the drifts made the path almost impassable.
The wind still swept fiercely through the defile, although the night was
clear. Once the young robber stopped suddenly and unslung his rifle; but
the noise he had heard was but that of a falling tree, and he resumed
his steady walk beside the pony.
How he survived that night Fred never knew. It was a vague, horrible
dream of snow and ice, of piercing chills and fever heats, of monotonous
plodding through the snow, alternating with plunging descents over rough
ground, that seemed to jar him to pieces, while every bone and muscle
was a separate anguish. Still on and on, the guide saying never a word.
Before dawn Fred dimly understood that they had struck the main road to
Wiju. Less snow had fallen here, and their progress was more rapid.
Early in the forenoon the noise of wheels and loud voices was heard on
the path behind them. Whether or not it was a band of pursuers he
neither knew nor cared. The world was one wide horror of pain and
glaring light and bursting misery of head and limb.
The cavalcade in the rear overtook the rider. It was a train of three
ambulance carts returning from the front with wounded Japanese. The
guide spoke briefly to the leader and Fred was lifted from his horse
with delicate brown hands as gentle as a woman's, and was placed on a
cot in one of the wagons. The young bandit disappeared. Fred never saw
him again.
Four days later the editor-in-chief of the _Bulletin_ took up a bit of
yellow paper and read: "Frederic Larkin, Correspondent, sick in hospital
at Hiroshima."
The chief smiled grimly as he laid down the cable despatch.
"In one of his scrapes again!" he said, tossing the paper over to his
sub. "We shall have to depend on the Associated for a while!"