"Poor little lass! Poor little lass!" he groaned, and all the anger
died out of his face. He came down with me to that bay, saw the bodies
and the marks on the shore, sent people to scour all the neighbourhood;
but nothing more could be discovered, and we went back again.
Presently the missionary came up—he’d been down to see those bodies too.
He was shaking like a leaf, and his sunburnt face was quite ashen in
colour. "Ah, mon!" and he wrung his hands, "but one o’ those puir dead
things was my servant. I know him by his clothes—the one with his head
fair smashed in."
I had had too many puzzling events suddenly sprung on me that morning,
and, honestly, couldn’t try to explain this last, and could only say
feebly, "Poor chap! Poor chap!"
"A vairy faithful mon, an’ vairy leetil expense," moaned the missionary.
Trevelyan showed him the shawl, and he recognized it at once as the one
Sally Hobbs had thrown over her head before leaving the Mission, so our
last faint hope vanished.
Fortunately young Rawlings relieved the grimness of everything just
then. He is a most pugnacious youngster, and though I had sent him on
board with Whitmore, he had managed to come ashore again. He had got
into trouble with two coolies—I suppose he had found them looting—and
had gone for them with his fists, and was laying about him in fine
style. One had taken to his heels, but the other stood his ground, and
kept banging at him with a piece of wood. The Skipper caught sight of
them too, and, for all the bad temper he was in, smiled grimly, and
chuckled out, "Go it, youngster!" Rawlings had already received a nasty
cut over the forehead, and would have been "knocked out" in another
minute, if I hadn’t stepped forward and knocked the fellow down. I don’t
mind telling you that I put more "beef" into that blow than was
absolutely necessary. Somehow or other I felt I must hit somebody, and
it was unlucky for that Chinaman.
"Go down to the boat, Mr. Rawlings. Umph! what d’you mean by brawling?"
growled the Skipper, suddenly remembering himself.
The Skipper told me, as we walked back to the landing-place, that
several Europeans had been seen during the night, and that they were
evidently in command of parties of Chinamen, who had prevented the
inhabitants extinguishing the flames when they first started. This made
it positive that it had been the work of the pirates, and confirmed the
rumours that Europeans had frequently been seen among them at different
times, and when any outrage on a large scale had been carried out.
What made the Skipper so furious was that they had so completely
outwitted him; and he became purple in the face with fury at their
daring to swoop down on the town, under his eyes, as it were, burn half
of it, kidnap Hobbs and his daughter, probably Travers too, and get away
scot free.
He took it as a personal insult, and I can’t tell you all the mad things
he suggested. He felt very much as I did—he wanted badly to batter
somebody’s face, but he soon quieted down, and walked beside me with
great strides, grunting and growling, and screwing up his face, and I
knew that he was trying to work out some plan in his bull-dog brain.
But you can’t hit a man till you’ve caught him, that was the difficulty,
and we had to catch him first, and knew well enough that among these
islands were a thousand places where those two steamers—the tramp and
the yacht—could lie concealed for years.
"Unless they want to make money over ’em, they’re as good as done for,"
the Skipper said, as we went on board. "Poor little lass, not more’n a
couple of years older than my lass Nan!"
I had served with "Old Lest" seven years, and I would do any mortal
thing for him. He pretended he was a thundering bully, and was really
as gentle as a child; and the men worshipped him, his gruff voice and
great red face—even his bad temper. I was extremely sorry for him too,
because the responsibilities resting on him were so great, prompt action
so necessary, and the difficulties so enormous.
He did what I suppose was the best, and sent the gunboats and the _Huan
Min_ cruising, whilst we remained at Tinghai, with fires "banked".
Leave to officers and men was forbidden, and that meant, of course, that
the Skipper himself did not go ashore, and had to give up his shooting,
which was the one thing for which he lived. The _Vigilant_ was, in fact,
kept ready to start within an hour of receiving any news.
Meanwhile natives—as trustworthy as Ching and the Taotai could
procure—had been scattered through the archipelago, and the war junks
also had been induced to leave Tinghai and endeavour to procure
information. The Skipper seemed to depend upon these particularly,
because they had naturally more intimate knowledge of the islands and
the character of the people. They could cruise, too, without attracting
so much attention as our gunboats. They generally cruised for a week,
and at the end of that time came sailing back to Joss House anchorage,
covered with flags and firing off guns, but with never a particle of
news.
Week after week went by, and not a trace of the pirates could be found.
Indeed, they seemed to have disappeared off the face of the seas, and
not a single outrage had been reported since they had burnt Tinghai.
Rashleigh, coming back in the _Ringdove_, did certainly report that he
had one night heard what he thought was the sound of guns somewhere off
the Chung-li Tao group, but had discovered nothing when he steamed in
the direction of the noise. "Silly fool!" roared the Skipper to me, "he
don’t know the difference between thunder and guns."
These weeks of weary waiting were most depressing, and the constant
confinement on board, without any exercise, most bad for our health—and
tempers.
We now felt sure that someone, probably the dead Mission servant, had
guided Travers down to the shore that night; that he, like the mad
fellow that he was, had rushed off alone, hoping to rescue Sally and her
father single-handed, and that he had been kidnapped with them. I
forgot to tell you that Barclay, our Surgeon, had found the bullet in
the body of the mutilated Chinaman, and that it was a service Webley
revolver bullet, so it was quite possible that Travers had shot him.
There probably had been a scuffle, and the Mission servant, not being
worth capturing, had been killed and mutilated to prevent recognition.
We all were so worried and depressed, that two days of strenuous work,
coaling ship from a collier, and another day of cleaning ship
afterwards, came as a welcome relief. It’s precious seldom that one does
welcome that job, but we did then.
For some long time I had not heard the noise of the gunroom piano.
Someone or other would be banging it at all hours of the day, and as the
gunroom was immediately beneath my cabin, the noise was a continual
source of annoyance to me. My messenger used to be always taking down
fiery messages to the Sub, Langham. The absence of this noise was now a
blessed relief, and when I mentioned it to Langham, he asked me to go
down and see for myself the reason of it. I went down, and found that
the piano was shut, and that _Vigilant_ cap-ribbons had been glued
across, to prevent it being opened. "Miss Hobbs was the last to play
it, sir, and the Mids and all of us have sworn that no one shall play it
again till she does, and till she cuts those ribbons with the senior
mid’s dirk."
"Who suggested that?" I asked, smiling.
"Mr. Langham, sir," several of the mids cried; but he, getting red in
the face, said it was Hamilton, the Engineer, and he put it on to Moore,
the A.P., so I left them settling the subject, and only too glad that
the piano was so effectually sealed.
I think that everyone did feel, as the gunroom did, that some day we
should see them all aboard again—Travers, with his mad, chivalrous
notions and "tired" manner, and the pretty little girl, with her winsome
face and funny twang.
At the end of the third week after the fire at Tinghai, the United
States gun-vessel, the _Omaha_, came down to place herself under the
Skipper’s orders and assist us in our search. She was larger than our
gunboats, very much more modern, and was rather quaint looking, with one
mast and an enormously long, thin smoke-stack.
"If that chap comes along here giving Old Lest advice, Old Lest will——
Umph!" the Skipper growled when she was sighted.
Her captain, a man named Parkinson, was a tall, gaunt, disappointed man,
with grey hair, and as old as Captain Lester himself, though actually
junior in rank to me. He came across to report himself, and I heard him
say, "Guess my boys thought the old _Omaha_ was a fixture in the
’chow-chow’ water at Shanghai, and our mud-hook could never be hauled
out again. Say, Captain, we are right pleased to come and assist you."
He was sent away cruising.
Another weary week went by, and still no news came.
Then it turned out—one of the gunboats actually caught them at it—that
those war junks, on which the Skipper relied so greatly for information,
simply went out of harbour, round the corner, and hid in a neighbouring
creek till their provisions ran out, and they had to come back again for
more.
This news put the finishing touches to the Skipper’s bad temper, and he
was mad with rage, and sent for the Taotai at once.
"Umph! A pretty how d’ye do! Those lumbering junks of yours simply
skulk out of sight round a corner," he roared; and when this had been
interpreted to the Taotai—I wondered how much the interpreter understood
and passed on correctly—the frightened old man gesticulated feebly, and
then out it came: "Taotai speaks, sir! If junks caught by Pilons, he
makee buy new ones—he no caree."
So that was it, was it—the old chap didn’t intend to risk losing them?
He was given so much a year to keep so many in good order, and if one
was lost he would have to replace it. No wonder that we could gain no
information from them.
You should have seen—and heard—the Skipper when he understood this, and
you should have seen the old Taotai hurry down to his state barge, hide
under his red umbrella, and shove off for the shore—glad enough he was
to get away, too.
Late that evening the Skipper sent for me. He was beaming all over his
face, puffing out his cheeks and working his shoulders, as I hadn’t seen
him do for a fortnight. He banged me on the chest and nearly knocked me
over. "Willum, where the dickens is Willum? Willum, you scoundrel!
bring the Commander one of my eighteen-penny Havanas," he roared.
It was half past eleven; I wanted to turn in, and didn’t care to smoke,
but it had to be done.
"Hit on a scheme, Truscott; I’ll wipe the old Taotai’s eye; I’m going to
put our own people aboard those junks, and see if we can’t make them
useful like that. Umph! What d’you say to that?" and he thumped the
table with his huge fist, and glared at me.
"Six of ’em I’m going to take."
"Won’t the old chap object, sir?" I asked.
"Object! I’ll teach him to object! He’s got it down in black and white
from his boss at Ningpo to put all his forces at our disposal," and the
Skipper winked at me from behind a cloud of blue cigar smoke. "He’ll be
pretty sorry he tried to pull Old Lest’s leg before he’s done with me.
Umph! Our only sporting chance is to catch some of these rascals, and
I’m not going to be too particular how I get information from ’em when I
do catch ’em."
Fortunately the _Huan Min_ came in that night, and Ching helped us
negotiate with the old gentleman in the walled city. He, I am certain,
did his best; but he told me, very candidly, that if we persisted in our
demands, we should touch their pride very greatly, and that it would
increase the already hostile feeling of the Chinese towards us, and
would very possibly prevent any information coming in from private
sources.
Captain Lester was much annoyed at the attitude he took up, and always
thought that he was the cause of what happened, though, personally, I am
sure that he had acted honestly by us. At any rate, the Skipper had
blurted out, "If he won’t lend ’em to Old Lest, Old Lest’ll borrow ’em;"
and somehow or other this threat got to the Taotai’s ears, and so scared
the old gentleman, that next morning not a war junk remained in harbour.
Ching came across directly, and protested that neither he nor his
Captain had any knowledge of their going to sea. I believed him, and so
did everyone, except the Skipper, who flew into a terrible rage, and I
was very glad to get Ching away and soothe his ruffled feelings, but
could not induce him to stay to breakfast.
"Made a fool of Old Lest again, have they? Umph! I’ll—I’ll—" he
stuttered and bellowed when I reported "divisions" to him, "I’ll do ’em
yet. I’ll buy half a dozen of their big merchant junks and man ’em
myself! Old Lest’ll sell a farm or two, if the Admiralty don’t pay for
’em."
"D’you mean that, sir?" I asked.
"D’you ever hear me say anything I didn’t mean?" he roared; and though I
must confess I had done so, I dare not say so.
I slipped away directly in my gig, and went across to the old _Huan
Min_. I saw her Captain and Ching pacing gloomily up and down the poop,
and it was very pleasant to see their faces open out again when they
heard the news, and that their country’s honour was not to be disturbed.
Ching gripped me by the hand—"You English, sir,"—and the muscles of his
face were working strangely—"do not understand how these things, these
slights, and—these little insults to our country hurt us. All you
Western nations think we have no such love and pride of country as you
have, and do not feel it. We do, sir! We do!"
I have always been glad that I did go aboard that morning, for my ideas
of the Chinese were very much changed.
Ching himself came of a very old fighting stock—his people had always
belonged to a high military caste, and his father had fought against the
French well and nobly. He himself—Lawrence had told me this—had fought
against the Japanese in the Yalu battle, and when all his senior
officers had been killed, and his ship almost a wreck, had taken her out
of action and staggered across to Wei-hai-wei, keeping the light
cruisers, which hung round him, at a respectful distance with the one
gun that was able to fire.
Japanese naval men had told me the story, in admiration of his plucky
ship, but it was not till Lawrence told me that I knew who had commanded
her.
I knew Ching a good deal better after that. He had done more fighting
than I ever hoped to have the luck to do, and when one’s job is to
fight, and one gets paid to keep oneself ready for it, one always
admires a man who has earned his pay.
Ching took me into his cabin once, a strange kind of barn, half Chinese
and half English, with two old faded photographs hanging on the
bulkheads, one of the _Inflexible_ and the other of her Mids, Ching in
the middle, and Lawrence, a fat little chubby-faced youth, by his side.