"En roulant ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule,"
and a number of the company joined in the simple refrain. The song
which had so often echoed on lake and stream, by the evening campfire,
where the paddle dipped, or in the frosty stillness of the snow-laden
forests of the north rang out through the scented darkness of the warm
tropic night.
A number of other songs were rendered by different members of the party.
Then Sinclair was called for again.
"I am afraid that my repertoire has come very near the point of being
exhausted," he said. "I have only those songs the words of which I can
remember, and the selection is not very choice."
This time it was a plaintive negro melody of the Sunny South. Again
Miss MacAllister found herself singing heartily with the rest in the
refrain, and after the first verse leading the chorus while Sinclair
sang bass. When the song was done she suddenly said to herself:
"What a silly I am making of myself! I came in here determined to get
even with that doctor. And here I am singing with him and for him like
a sissy in a Sunday-school concert. He can do his own singing from now
on. I'll pay him back yet."
The rest were urging Sinclair to sing again, when Miss MacAllister said:
"Dr. Sinclair has shown wonderful versatility in his choice of songs
this evening. English, French, negro, he sings them all with equal
facility. I wonder if he would not favour us with a Canadian Indian
song. I have never heard any of their music. I should so love to have
the opportunity. Will you not sing us one, Dr. Sinclair?"
Her face wore an expression of childlike innocence and interest. But
McLeod thought he saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mr. MacAllister
looked at his daughter with a puzzled face and shook his head a little.
The consul eyed her doubtfully, as though trying to fathom the purpose
behind this request. He saw nothing but the appearance of almost
infantile guilelessness. Then he heard Sinclair saying:
"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. I am happy to do anything in my power to
serve you. Only it is a little hard on Mr. Beauchamp to ask him even to
chord to a type of music he may never have heard before."
"Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair. I am all anxiety to hear you."
Then she added:
"I am sure Mr. Beauchamp will be able to accompany you. He is a man of
infinite resource in music." For she was afraid that Sinclair's concern
about placing the consul in a difficult position was only an attempt to
provide a loop-hole for his own escape.
A buzz of conversation broke out in the room while Sinclair bent over
the instrument, softly humming a slow, stately measure, and the consul's
fingers felt for the harmonious chords. Soon the voice and the chords
were moving together in harmony.
"That may be an Indian tune," said Beauchamp, "but it sounds remarkably
like certain bars from an old sixteenth-century mass I had to practise
when a boy until my fingers were nearly worn out."
"Perhaps the Indians learned it from the early Roman Catholic
missionaries," was the quick reply. "In any case, I fancy it is the
sound of the language Miss MacAllister wishes to hear rather than the
music."
"If you like, I shall play the tune for you. I remember it perfectly."
"Thank you, I prefer the chords."
Sinclair straightened himself, and the buzz of conversation instantly
ceased. Then his voice rolled forth to the slow, solemn air, words as
melodious as the notes of the music. At their first sound the consul's
head ducked below the level of the piano, which hid him from most in the
room. Sinclair gave him a vicious dig in the ribs, but sang on without
the quiver of an eyelid. The full vowel sounds of the unknown language
brought out to perfection the tones of his rich bass voice.
His eyes glanced around the room. All were listening intently, and all,
save Commander Gardenier, had their eyes on him. He thought that he
could detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face. Miss
MacAllister had a keen look--was it a suspicious look?--in her eyes.
Under cover of the applause which followed the consul turned on him:
"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek tragedy on a company
like this for a Red Indian war-song."
"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair. "But I had to do something or be
again held up to ridicule as I was at dinner. I thought that you were
the only one likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not betray
me."
"I acknowledge that you had to do something. For some reason Miss
MacAllister seems bound to make game of you. She deserves what you have
given her, and I'll not give you away. But it was nervy just the same."
And the consul laughed indulgently as he turned away.
Miss MacAllister did not join in the general applause. But when it was
done she said gravely:
"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim to hear a song in the
Indian language. I had no idea that it would be so beautiful. Thank
you very much."
Sinclair's face flushed as he replied:
"I am only too glad to have been able to do anything which has pleased
you." At the same moment he felt a pang of remorse for the deception.
He had not long to think of it when he heard Mrs. MacAllister saying to
Commander Gardenier:
"What a barbarous jargon to be called a language!"
"Yes," replied the officer drily, "but I have heard a good many others
more barbarous."
Then Thomson, the missionary, remarked in his slow way:
"It--some--way--seems--to--me--that--I--have
--heard--some--thing--like--that--before."
Sinclair had to act quickly:
"You were a missionary once among the Indians of Bruce Peninsula, were
you not?"
"Yes--I--was."
"You probably heard it there."
"Well--perhaps--I--did."
Some of the guests rose to depart, and their hostess rose with them.
Before they had time to begin to say farewell, Carteret said loudly
enough to be heard by all in the room:
"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear Mr. De Vaux sing again?
I know that we should all be delighted to hear him."
"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De Vaux," replied the hostess,
who realized the condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after
a dinner. "I think that he is tired. He has done his part so well this
evening that it seems unfair to ask him for any more."
"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux will not feel it a hardship
to sing again. He is our foremost vocalist in Formosa. We want him to
uphold the honour of the local talent. Mr. De Vaux, will you not sing
for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"
"Lord! ... Mr. Carteret--ladies and gentlemen--how good of you to ask
me! ... By----! ... Bless my soul, I mean! ... It is good of you.... I'm
afraid.... I'm not in very good voice. But since you insist--I'll
try.... By----! ... I mean 'pon my honour, I shall!"
"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux?" said the consul, in response
to an appealing look from his wife.
"How good of you, Beauchamp! ... By----! ... 'Pon my soul, I mean--it
is!"
Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the piano, The Honourable
Lionel Percival Dudley De Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic
gasps, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep."
Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded by natives carrying
lanterns, they began to move off into the warm aromatic darkness of the
southern night.
*VIII*
*SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY*
Sinclair and McLeod were awaiting their opportunity to say good-night
when one of the consul's Chinese servants hastily entered and handed his
master a letter:
"One boy b'long Kai Bok-su come Keelung side, one piecee chit new
sick-boy-man can catchee."
"All right, boy," replied the consul. "Dr. Sinclair, here's a letter
for you from Dr. MacKay."
The doctor cut the letter open and read:
"CHINESE CAMP, LOAN-LOAN, NEAR KEELUNG,
"Aug. 5th, 1884.
"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:
"As you are aware, a battle is raging. A number of the Chinese have
been killed. Many more are wounded. The end is not yet. They have no
doctors but native fakirs. They have no medicines, no instruments, no
knowledge of surgery. There is dreadful suffering. Will you help?
Never a better opportunity to serve humanity and win the Chinese.
"The consul will give you passports. The bearer of this will guide you.
A Hoa will come with you as far as Taipeh and secure a permit from the
governor. Mrs. MacKay and Dr. Bergmann will give you a free hand with
the Mission's stock of medicines, and will help you to pack them. Will
you come?
"Yours,
"G. L. MACKAY."
Without a word Sinclair handed the open letter to the consul, who had
now bidden farewell to the rest of the guests. He read it quickly and
looked up:
"You are going?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"First launch in the morning."
"Good! I'll have your papers ready."
"Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp. Good-night."
"I'll send the constable over to MacKay's with the papers. Take care of
yourself. Good-night, doctor. Good-night, McLeod."
* * * * *
The first faint rose of dawn was showing in the sky behind the great
bulk of the Taitoon Mountains when Sinclair stepped out on the broad
verandah of the missionary's bungalow, ready for his journey. The
Chinese student who was to guide him was already there. A coolie
bearing two round baskets containing the medicines, instruments, and
other necessaries, balanced on the end of his long bamboo carrying pole,
came round the corner of the house.
The iron gate at the foot of the garden clicked sharply. A vigorous
step sounded on the gravelled walk. An erect, soldierly figure stepped
out of the darkness into the light streaming from the doorway, rapped
his heels together, saluted, and handed Dr. Sinclair a packet of
letters.
"Good-morning, Sergeant Gorman. You're sharp on time."
"No credit to me, sir! It's the consul, sir! The divil himself wud
have to get up in the morning before he went to bed at night to catch
the consul late."
There was no mistaking Sergeant Gorman's native land. Sinclair laughed
as he said:
"I suppose these are my passports."
"Right you are, sir! But wud you moind lookin' at the last one furst,
for, widout army conceit in meself, it's the most important of thim
all."
Sinclair opened it and read:
"H. B. M. CONSULATE, TAMSUI, Aug. 6th, 1884.
"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:
"I am presuming on your good nature to make a request of you. Will you
accept of Sergeant Gorman's assistance in your volunteer Red Cross
Service? Ever since the cannon fire began yesterday morning, he has
been aching to get into the field of action. Your going is an
opportunity. He will not be an encumbrance. He has been at various
times surgeon's assistant and hospital sergeant. He speaks pidgin, and
knows quite a bit of vernacular. Commander Gardenier will spare me a
man to take his place. Feeling sure that you will grant my request as
soon as you read it, I have enclosed his passports with yours.
"Wishing you a safe and speedy return, I am,
"Your obedient servant,
"H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP."
Sinclair read between the lines. It was not merely the desire to
gratify Sergeant Gorman's passion to be in any fighting which might be
handy which had actuated the consul. It was solicitude for himself. He
was a stranger in the island. He did not know the language. He had
never been nearer war than the annual camp of a brigade of Canadian
militia. This resourceful Irishman, with more than twenty years of
varied service, mostly in the Orient and among Oriental peoples, would
simply be invaluable to him. The consul had been up all night arranging
for his convenience and safety. More to himself than to any one else he
exclaimed:
"Beauchamp's a trump!"
"An' the right bower at that!" interjected Gorman.
Sinclair dashed into MacKay's study, scribbled off a hasty note of
thanks, and was out again before the sergeant had finished
congratulating himself on his good fortune.
"We must be off. There goes the launch's whistle," said Sinclair, as he
swung off with his long, powerful strides, which put Gorman to his best
gait and made the natives drop into their peculiar little jogging trot.
Although the day had scarcely broken when they left the house, and it
was but a few hundred yards down the steep hill to the beach, the
impatient sun of the South had already sprung into the heavens when they
reached the little jetty at which the launch lay. A Hoa, the chief
Chinese assistant of Dr. MacKay, and McLeod were already there.
"Hallo, Mac!" exclaimed the doctor. "I thought you would be sleeping
yet. It's more than decent of you to turn out so early to see me off."
"I am going with you as far as Twatutia," replied McLeod. "The Chinese
are so excited over this war that they have not forwarded part of our
cargo. I am going up to see what persuasives I can apply to the
compradore. We have to sail by this afternoon's tide and want to take a
full cargo. We may not get another chance for a while."
"I certainly am in luck this morning," said Sinclair. "You to keep me
company as far as Twatutia; A Hoa to get my passports vised, and
Sergeant Gorman to act as my bodyguard and be generally responsible for
my safety and good conduct."
By this time the two friends and the Chinese preacher had found for
themselves as comfortable positions as possible under the awning which
covered the decks of the little launch and sheltered them from the rays
of the sun.
The launch was threading its way through a fleet of junks which were
hasting to get out to sea with the ebbing tide. Some had already
hoisted their huge, brown, bat-wing sails and turned their watchful eyes
towards the open sea. Some were just lifting their anchors, while
priests from the neighbouring temple rowed around them in boats with
beating drums and droning pipes, to frighten away the demons, propitiate
the goddess of the sea, secure for the sailors a prosperous voyage,
undisturbed by the French, and incidentally to get for themselves and
their temple a substantial contribution. Some had not yet finished
taking cargo, and their crews were working with feverish haste to get
loaded in time not to miss the last of the ebb. From them all came the
ceaseless shrill, nasal shouting of the Chinese seamen as they pulled at
the ropes, or heaved up the anchor or hauled away at the tackle hoisting
their cargo on board.
It was all intensely interesting to Sinclair, who never wearied of
studying human life, especially when it presented types and phases which
were new and strange to him. But he was not so much interested in the
Chinese as to fail to notice the large house, with its cool-looking
upper and lower verandahs, looking out on the river, in which the
MacAllisters were quartered. He wondered if the maiden who had teased
him so were awake and plotting some new mischief to make him or some one
else uncomfortable. Or was she sleeping as peacefully as if she had
never done a naughty deed in all her bright young life? It was with a
start, as if a guilty secret had been discovered, that he heard McLeod's
voice saying:
"I suppose your Highland girl is having her beauty sleep. I never saw
any one who to my mind needed it less."
Sinclair was annoyed that McLeod so often seemed to read his thoughts.
It was a little tartly that he replied:
"Are you still harping at that? If I were a suitor for that young
lady's hand, I should have to look upon you as a rival, you seem so
smitten with her."
"Not the slightest danger, Doc. The fact that a fellow admires a girl's
looks or style doesn't necessarily mean that he has fallen in love with
her. Oh, no! I have my own dreams of a trip I hope to make next year
to Prince Edward Island, and if I come back to the China Coast I'll not
come back alone. That's good enough for me. I admire Miss MacAllister.
I think she's splendid. But falling in love with her! Not the
slightest notion! Any interest I have in her is on your account."
"I'm sorry, Mac. I shouldn't have said what I did. I knew that you
were as true as steel."
"It's all right, doctor. I've been jollying you too much. And the way
she acts sometimes makes it a little hard to bear. But you'll win out
in the end."
"I do not know about that," said Sinclair, somewhat gloomily. "The way
she treated me last night did not look much like it."
"Never mind that. She would not treat you like that if she were not
taking more interest in you than in any one else at present. She
doesn't know just what is the matter with herself. That is the way she
is taking to work it off. She'll change after a bit."
"I'll yield to your superior knowledge of the ways of women," said the
doctor, with a laugh which had but little mirth in it. "It may be all
right. Just the same, it doesn't look good to me.... Here comes
Sergeant Gorman. I had better see my passports, and get him to instruct
A Hoa what is to be done when we get to Taipeh."
Opening the packet, he found copies of passports in English, French, and
Chinese. One addressed to the French Commander read:
"HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S CONSULATE,
"TAMSUI, August 6th, 1884.
"_To the Officer in Chief Command of the French Forces at Keelung_:
"The bearer of this paper, Doctor Donald Sinclair, a British subject,
has volunteered his services as a medical doctor to the sick and wounded
of the Chinese army, at present engaged before Keelung. He will observe
strict neutrality, and will be equally ready to perform humane offices
and render skilled medical and surgical assistance to any of the French
troops, should circumstances bring that within his power. Wherefore I,
the undersigned consul for Great Britain at Tamsui, do beg the Officer
in Command of the French Forces at Keelung, to accord to the said Doctor
Donald Sinclair protection and liberty to perform his offices of mercy,
in accordance with the terms of the Geneva Convention. He will be
accompanied by one European assistant, likewise a British subject,
Sergeant John Gorman, and by one or more Chinese assistants, all wearing
the badge of the Red Cross.
"H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP,
"Her Britannic Majesty's Consul."
Passports of a similar tenor were addressed to the Chinese authorities.
"Sergeant Gorman, you know Chinese. Tell A Hoa what we want him to do
when we get to Taipeh. He is to get these vised and, if possible, to get
a special permit from the governor. It will carry more weight than the
passports."
"Very good, sir! I'll make him understand."
Sergeant Gorman's mastery of the language was not perfect. But the
Chinese preacher required little instruction. He knew better than
either Sinclair or the sergeant what should be done. Before becoming a
Christian he had been private secretary to a mandarin in an official
position at Pekin. He had travelled much on the mainland as well as in
Formosa, and was well acquainted with official procedure both in peace
and in war. Scarcely had Sergeant Gorman begun his explanations when
his "Ho! ... Ho! ... An-ni ho! ... Put-tsi ho!" (Good! good! That's
good! Very good!) showed that he fully understood what was expected of
him.
*IX*
*A QUIET LIFE*
Meanwhile McLeod and Sinclair were studying the sergeant. He was a man
of perhaps forty-five years, but could pass for much younger. Five feet
eight or nine inches in height, he was broad-shouldered and sturdily
built. No matter where he might be or how dressed, there could be no
mistaking that he had been a soldier. Long military training spoke in
every movement. His thick hair was a red-brown, with the emphasis on the
red. So was his heavy, fierce-looking moustache. So were his bristling
eyebrows. So were his eyes. His face, save where it was ordinarily
covered by the band of his sun-helmet, was pretty nearly the same shade.
He talked rapidly; very rapidly; so rapidly that his words often
stumbled over one another in their eagerness to get out, until he
actually stuttered. When he tried, he spoke English with just enough
Irish accent to make it sweet on his tongue. But when he didn't try,
and that was most of the time, the brogue was rich and thick. Nearly
always he had the peculiarly Irish trick of repeating the last words of
a closing sentence.
"How long has Gorman been here?" asked Sinclair in a low tone.
"Only a couple of months," replied McLeod. "Came over with us from
Amoy."
"How does it come that a sergeant with his record of service should end
up by being consulate constable in an out-of-the-way corner like
Tamsui?"
"Search me! I can't tell you."
"Probably the old story of a man who has served his Queen and country
well and then been dropped, to live or die wherever he may chance to
fall."
"Yes, and none of the blockheads who have commanded him have sense
enough to know how much good service they could get out of a man like
that, if they would only give him a chance to rise. Instead they turn
him adrift like a worn-out horse."
"Perhaps he has a history behind him. It seems to me that most men out
here, except you and I, Mac, have histories. Here he comes. Perhaps he
will talk."
The sergeant crossed the little deck, stood at attention, and saluted:
"I have the honour to report, sir, that I have given the Chinese, A Hoa,
the instructions you commanded and that he seems to understand them very
well, sir."
"Very good, sergeant. There is nothing further to be done until we
reach Twatutia. Be seated."
"Thank you, sir."
"By the way, sergeant, I notice by the passport that your name is John
Gorman."
"It is, sir."
"I used to know a Sergeant John Gorman on the police force in Kingston,
Canada. They say that, when the college boys were out on a frolic and
raising cain, he could do more to keep them within bounds with a smile
and a bit of blarney than all the rest of the force could do with their
batons."
"Och, but he'll be from Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, in County Cork.
All the people there are Gormans, an' most of thim are John Gormans. An'
as for the shmile, all the Gormans have it. They get it whin they're
childer, sayin' the name of their native place. An' whin they grow up,
no matther where they go, the shmile wan't come off--the divil a bit
will it come off."
"You're right there, sergeant," said McLeod. "You have the smile, sure
enough. But it never shows to best advantage until you say the name of
the place where you were born. What's this it is, again?"
"Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."
"Exactly! That's a name to make any one smile."
"Och, Misther McLeod, but you shud have seen it on me whin I furst left
the ould place. Me face was all shmile. But on the Afghan border wan
day, an ould black-face of a Pathan--may the divil fly away wid
him!--tuk a pot shot at me from betune two rocks. He got me through the
two cheeks of me, an' siv'ral of me teeth. After the wounds healed up I
never had me natural shmile ag'in,--wud you bel'ave me I niver was able
to shmile natural ag'in."
"Did you get back at him at all?" inquired McLeod.
"That's jist what was hurtin' me. For while I was spittin' out me
teeth, an' in no condishun to take aim, the onderhanded, tricherous
Afghan was dodgin' away through the rocks. But me next in file in the
Munsters, he was a Scotchman from Aberdeen got a squint of him as he
bint double, goin' round the corner of a pricipice, an' be the blissin'
of Hiven, took a chip off the stern works of him--a mortial good shot,
for the target he hit was the only part in sight."
"But how did you know that he was hit?" asked McLeod. "Did you take him
prisoner?"
"Divil a bit! A wounded Pathan can crawl loike a wounded snake. But
eighteen months afterwards I was up in the hills, wan of an escort of
the p'ace envoys. The very first day wan of the native policemen
pointed out an ould black-face among the chiefs an' tould me that was
the man that put the bullet through me two cheeks. An' be the powers,
that ould haythen cud no more sit down than I cud shmile. The shot of
me next in file had spoiled the joint in the middle of him. It was the
furst rale comfort that had come to me since the day I was shot. I
began to laugh whin I saw him shtandin' up shtiff as a ramrod whin the
others sat; or lyin' on his back, shtraight as a yardstick whin the rest
were reclinin'-loike on the divans. The more I thought of it, the more I
laughed, an' the shmile of the Gormans began to come back to me little
by little. But I'll niver have the shmile ag'in that I had in
Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky--sure as I'm livin', I'll niver shmile
ag'in as I used to whin I left Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."
"How did you come to leave Sleeahtballymack-what-a-ghalicky?" inquired
Sinclair.
"Shure, docther, an' it wasn't me own doin'. To the best of me
ricolliction it was the doin' of Providence, wid a bit of help from the
priests, an' me father, an' the government, an' the recruitin' sergeant
thrown in."
"How did they all come to the help of Providence?" asked the doctor.
"Faix, but you're of an inquirin' turn of moind, docther; beggin' your
pardon for makin' so bould as to tell you that same."
"It's all right, sergeant. Go on."
"Well, docther, to make a long story short, it began this way. Me
father was an indepindint farmer, wid a bit of land right forninst the
dure of the church at Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, an' a hundred
pounds in a bank in Cork. He was gittin' on in years. Me mother was
dead, an' I was the only choild. What does me father do but tips an'
wills his land to the Church for masses, me to be a priest, an' the
money to the college that was to educate me. You'll onderstand that the
land an' the money were not to be paid over till me father was dead an'
done wid thim, d'ye see? But I was to go to school at wanst to be
trained for a priest, d'ye onderstand?"
"Yes, I see the plan."
"Well, widout even so much as sayin' 'by your l'ave,' they packed me off
to the Classical School in Skibbereen, to learn Latin an' the other
dead-an'-gone languages. To make a long story short, it didn't agree
wid me, an' I didn't agree wid it. It wasn't the languages. I cud get
thim all right. It was this business of bein' a priest. Moind ye, I'm
not sayin' annything ag'in the Church. I was born a Catholic, an' I'll
die a Catholic. But bein' a priest wint ag'in me grain. To repeat ould
dead prayers for dead people, in dead languages, which nobody prisint
but the blissed Lord Himself cud onderstand, an He tired of hearin' thim
centuries before you were born; to hear ould wives confessin' their sins
which they shudn't tell to anny man, barrin' another ould wife loike
thimselves; to live on the fat of the land while the Paddies an' Dinnies
an' Mickies were livin' on pitaties an' salt, wid now an' ag'in a taste
of butthermilk--it didn't seem to me givin' value for the money
received.
"An' thin I was gettin' to be a bit of a gossoon, an' sometoimes I was
afther thinkin' of me farm at Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, which
wasn't moine ayther, for it was willed to the Church. They often tould
me that whin I was a priest I wud have no use for the farm. They said
that a half-acre of purgatory was worth more to a priest than the best
two-hundred-acre farm in County Cork. But they all had their
well-cultivated garden plots in purgatory, an' bedad but they wanted me
farm as well--d'ye moind. They were afther me farm in County Cork as
well.
"Not to be wearyin' you wid the details of me autybiography, the longer
I was at it the less I loiked it, an' the more I had differences of
opinion wid the priests of the college, 'speshully wid the wan they
called the Prefect of Discipline, which is the polite name for the
Wallopin' Masther. Jist as I was gettin' tired of the b'atin's, an' was
thinkin' of runnin' away an' joinin' the navy for the sake of a quiet
loife, the English Government came to the assistance of Providence, an'
betune the two they got me out of bein' a priest--thanks to the
government an' the Hivenly Lord, I got out of bein' a priest."
"How in the world did the government come to interfere with your course
in the college?" inquired Sinclair.
"The government did not interfere directly, as you moight say. It
didn't make what you moight call a frontal attack. It jist made a kind
of divarshun in the rear. It appointed me father a Jay Pay."
"A Jay Pay!" exclaimed McLeod. "What kind of a pay is that?"
"Why, Misther McLeod, it's a Jay Pay, jist. A Justice of the P'ace for
the District of West Cork."
"Oh, I understand!"
"Yes, sir! It appointed me father a Jay Pay for West Cork. An',
docther, did you ever hear of annything foolisher in your loife? To
appoint a man a Jay Pay who was sixty-foive years ould, foive fut two
inches high, weighed only seven stone, and had never learned how to use
the two hands of him or the proper twisht to give a blackthorn? Wud you
tell me now, fwhat was the use of makin' a Justice of the P'ace in West
Cork out of a little ould man who cud nayther use his hands nor twirl a
shillelagh?"
"It does appear unreasonable."
"Onreasonable? Begorra, it was wurrse than that. There was no sinse to
it. An' anny man that knows West Cork will tell you the same. But the
ways of the governmint are loike the ways of Providence, past foinding
out. Anny way, it meant that me course for the priesthood was brought
to a speedy conclusion.
"How?"
"Well, it was this way. Me father was appointed a Jay Pay, wid
headquarters at Bantry. The very furst case he troied was wan of
assault committed by Micky Murphy on Paddy O'Leary whin he was seein'
Biddy O'Hea home afther mass. They were pretty well matched, and wan
got as much damage as the other. So me father jist bound both of thim
over to kape the p'ace. Wud you belave me, just to show th'ir contimpt
for the law an' for a little ould man loike that bein' made a Jay Pay,
by common consult they fought it out forninst the very dure of his
court, while the local consthables held their coats an' Biddy O'Hea was
referee.
"Thin was me chanst. Before that me father wud hear nothin' for me but
bein' a priest. Now he appointed me a speshull consthable. He wanted
me to go to Dublin an' take some lessons wid me hands an' wid a shtick
from a profissor of the science. I tould him that it was quite
unnecessary. Anny likely gossoon of eighteen or nineteen who had spint
three years contindin' wid the Wallopin' Masther of that school in
Skibbereen had all the science he was likely to need as a speshull
consthable. An' be the powers, me father had no reason to repint of his
choice. There was no more contimpt shown for the law whin he held
court--shure as the saints are in hiven, niver a wan showed anny more
contimpt of court in West Court, but he was sorry for the day he was
born.
"Not to be wearyin' you wid particulars, this wint along for about three
years. Thin me father got too feeble to do the wurrk, an' the
governmint appointed an associate Jay Pay. That was the ind of me
service as a speshull consthable. The new Jay Pay stood six fut three,
an' weighed two hundred an' fifty pounds. I was out of a job.
"But there was no lack of divarshun. From Mullaghareirk to
Ballingurreen, from Clonakilty to Ballydehob, from Musheramore to
Teampeall-na-bo'ct, every Rory of the Hills that had iver been in me
father's court, or iver had a relation there, was lyin' for me wid his
shillelagh, an' sometimes an ould rusty fowlin'-piece. It wasn't
healthy for me in West Cork anny more. The priests cud have made it
safe enough. But I had wanst studied to be a priest, an' had continded
wid the Prefect of Discipline, d'ye see? An' thin there was the hundred
pounds in the bank in Cork, an' the farm forninst the dure of the church
in Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, d'ye moind? They wud be surer if I
was out of the way. So, for the sake of a quiet loife, I tuk the
Queen's shillin' an' went away to the wars--God pardon me if I'm not
speakin' the truth, it was for a quiet loife I left West Cork, an' was
shipped out wid the Munsters to the wars in Indy."
"Did you ever see your father again?"
"Niver! He doied a twelvemonth after I left for Indy."
"Have you ever been back to see the old place where you were born?"
"Wanst. Tin years afther I enlisted, I got l'ave an' wint back from
Indy."
"And the farm----?"
"It was still there. They hadn't moved it."
"Who had it?"
"The priests."
"Was the money still in the bank in Cork?"
"Divil a bit!"
"Did you inquire?"
"I did."
"What did they tell you?"
"They tould me that they had expinded the hundred pounds, an' the value
of the farm, an' a little more in masses an' prayers to get me father
out of purgatory. They said that I was a bit in their debt, an' that
they would need a trifle yet for they hadn't got him quite free. I
asked thim if that was God's truth they were speakin'. They tould me
that it was. 'Thin,' says I, 'if you know so much of what's goin' on in
purgatory, wud you jist give me father a message from me? Jist tell him
to ask the Blissed Lord to open the dure and let him out, an' I'll stake
me sowl's salvation on it that the Lord will do it at wanst, and niver
ask him for a farm or a hundred pounds in the bank. For me father was a
man that niver willingly hurted a chicken.' An' wid that I left them
wid me farm an' the hundred pounds. But it's many a cintury me father
will be restin' on the beds of flowers in glory before the fires of
purgatory will have burned that farm an' the hundred pounds out of the
sowls of the black dragoons who defrauded me of me inheritance. An'
that's God's truth I'm tellin' you. An' moind ye, it's a Catholic I was
born and a Catholic I intind to die."
For a time the three white men sat in silence, each busy with his own
thoughts. The broad river streamed past them, gleaming in the sun,
bearing its fleet of fishing boats and market boats and here and there a
cargo boat, with big mat sails, dropping down with the current and tide,
laden with tea or sugar or camphor or coal. The low green shores were
quick with the life of a dense population. Beyond these the blue and
purple hills rose and stretched away in wavy lines of colour till the
far-off lofty peaks blended with the sky.
Dr. Sinclair turned from the natural scenery to look again at the Irish
soldier who was to be his companion in the new and unaccustomed scenes
which lay before him. Sergeant Gorman was looking out over river and
plain and mountain. But his eyes were those of one who did not see.
There was a far-away look in them. Dreams slept in their red-brown
depths. He interested Sinclair strangely. He was a rare specimen in
the doctor's field of research, human kind. He wanted to know more of
him.
"You have put in most of your service in the Far East, Sergeant Gorman?"
he said.
"I have, sir. All except two years spint at the Cape."
"Mostly in India?"
"Mostly, wid spells at Aden and in Burmah. Thin I was sint to
Hong-Kong, where I picked up the pidgin. I put in my last years of
service in the Straits, where I learned a bit of the lingo spoken here.
At the Straits all the wurrk is done by Chinese from Amoy, the same
people as these in Formosa. Thin, as there was nothing for a
time-expired soldier to do, an' the climate was too hot for the wife an'
childer, I came north to Amoy an' tuk service ag'in wid some more
has-beens, to guard the consulate an' do a bit of police wurrk in the
Settlement durin' the trouble wid the French. But, begorra, it was out
of the fryin'-pan into the fire."
"How was that?"
"Me mother-in-law came to live wid us."
"That was hard lines," said McLeod sympathetically.
"Faith, an' if you'd known her you'd say that from the heart."
"How long did you stand it?
"Six weeks."
"And then----?"
"Thin I heard that the French were beloike to kick up a shindy in
Formosa. So for the sake of a quiet loife I exchanged to Tamsui. An'
here I am off to the wars ag'in an' enjoyin' p'ace an' happiness--by the
blissin' of Hiven, enjoyin' p'ace an happiness."
*X*
*GLORIOUS WAR*
The launch had reached the landing-place at Twatutia. The little party
stepped ashore. A parting grasp of the hand from McLeod, and Dr.
Sinclair, Sergeant Gorman, A Hoa and the student guide stepped into
chairs, to be borne to the governor's yamen in the adjoining walled city
of Taipeh.
The governor was not at home. He had already left for Keelung to take
personal charge of the defences. But the deputy he had left in Taipeh
seemed to have imbibed some of the active and progressive spirit of Liu
Ming-chuan. He read a Chinese copy of the passports, listened carefully
to A Hoa's courteous and polished explanations, affixed the official
seals, and wrote a brief order to all officials, civil and military, to
extend all courtesy and afford every assistance to the distinguished
foreigners who were volunteering their services to the Chinese forces.
There were none of the old-time red-tape evasions and delays of Chinese
officialdom. He was another of the pioneers of a new China.
A Hoa returned to Tamsui, having fulfilled his commission. The rest
pushed on towards the camp at Loan-Loan.
Before they left the city they met in the streets many natives who were
plainly refugees from Keelung and the vicinity. Once outside the walls,
they saw the narrow road as it wound and zigzagged through the
rice-fields, dotted with town and country people, hurrying as best they
could towards the capital for safety. The farther they advanced the
denser grew the stream of fugitives.
The rice-fields were left behind with the plain near Taipeh. The road
began to pass through a more and more mountainous region. It grew
narrower and narrower, until it was a mere foot-path, sometimes
threading the bottom of a ravine and sometimes clinging precariously to
the face of a hill which was almost a precipice; now dropping down to
the very margin of the river or fording a tributary stream, and now far
up on a mountain side. And all the way, like a huge, writhing,
variegated snake, appearing on the hillsides and open spaces,
disappearing in the ravines, in the long grass or groves of bamboos,
that endless line of refugees wound its slow length along.
It is about twenty miles from Taipeh to Keelung. After the first ten
miles the throng of fugitives became so dense that it was very difficult
for the chairs to proceed. Honest fathers of families laden with all
they could carry of their poor household possessions; rascally banditti
and sneak thieves taking advantage of the general disorder and distress
to loot their neighbours' deserted houses, and even to snatch from the
hands or shoulders of the defenceless the few valuables they were trying
to save; women hobbling along on their little feet with infants strapped
to their backs, and older children, whom they were ill-able to help,
clinging to their hands; maidens terror-stricken by the tales of the
imaginary atrocities of the foreign devils, and scarcely less afraid of
the real atrocities of their own rascally fellow-countrymen, especially
of many of the braves from the mainland.
At long intervals a sedan-chair pressed its way through the throng,
bearing a sick or wounded officer back to the capital. Wounded regulars
in white or red or maroon tunics and straw hats limped along, adding a
touch of colour to the writhing serpent. Irregular levies in the
ordinary dark-blue cotton clothing of the Chinese coolies were hastening
home, glad of the success of the French attack, so that they might get
an opportunity to desert with their arms and all the loot they could lay
their hands upon.
The flight had its comedies and its tragedies. But the comedies only
played lightly over the surface of the general tragedy. A coolie jogged
along with two huge baskets swinging from the ends of the bamboo
carrying-pole. In one were a small pig and a number of live ducks and
hens. Balancing these in the other basket were his two children.
Some farmers, making an effort to save their livestock, drove a number
of pigs and a herd of water-buffaloes into the midst of the long line of
refugees. But frightened by the yells and execrations, pounded with
staffs and bamboo yokes, and jabbed by the knives, spears, and bayonets
of the soldiers, they stampeded along the narrow way through the midst
of the procession. The pigs, running between the feet of the weary
plodders, upset many. But the buffaloes, with their huge bulk and
enormous horns, flung them right and left and trampled some to death,
till their mad rush turned off at an angle from the road being followed.
Over all rose a continual clamour of shrill, high-pitched
voices--talking, scolding, cursing, crying, screaming hysterically.
One old woman with white hair, hobbling painfully along with the aid of
a staff, stopped again and again, saying that she could go no farther.
Each time her son, who was laden with the most precious of his household
goods, reasoned with her, pled with and adjured her to try again. He
was backed by all the members of the family. After much shrill
altercation, she would make another attempt and struggle along a short
distance. At last she stopped, sat down by the wayside, and, in spite
of all they could do, refused to budge an inch. Her poor little bound
feet could carry her no farther. Seeing that persuasion was in vain,
the son put down his load of valuables. He looked hesitatingly from his
mother to his poor possessions, and from them back to his mother again.
Filial piety prevailed, and crouching down he lifted his mother on his
back and trudged on, leaving his chattels by the way. He had not gone a
hundred feet when there was not an article left. But there were other
old and feeble, other women and children, who had none to carry them.
They were left beside the road to live or die.
A man dressed in a long gown of mauve silk, evidently a prosperous
merchant, was trudging along, followed closely by his wife, a couple of
young maidens, evidently daughters, and some younger children. One of
the bandits who had been enrolled as soldiers and had deserted was
hurrying past. Like a flash he snatched at a cord he saw around the
merchant's neck, jerked a bag of money from within his clothes and with
a tug which well-nigh strangled him wrenched it away. Recovering
himself a little the merchant, with a scream of anger, struck the robber
over the head with his staff. Instantly the ruffian levelled his gun
and blew out his victim's brains, in the midst of the shrieking women of
his household. Then, darting into the long grass and bamboos, he made
his escape. There was none to avenge. There were none save the weeping
women to care. Fear and the instinct of self-preservation made them all
brutes. The throng pressed blindly on, trampling the still quivering
body of the murdered man under their feet.
There were many more women and children in the flight than men. It was
not merely because some of the men had willingly taken service against
the enemy, and others had been impressed. In many cases it was because
the husbands and fathers had fled first and left their wives and
children to fare as best they could. Love plays so small a part in
Chinese home life that there was little bond to bind husbands to wives.
A wife is purchased in much the same way as any other domestic animal.
When it came to a choice between his individual safety by unencumbered
flight and incurring some risk by waiting to save his wife, many a
Chinese husband unhesitatingly chose the former. The women of such
families had to seek safety as best they could. Great numbers of them
were among the fugitives.
These defenceless women were the special prey of the irregular levies,
deserters, and banditti, who were everywhere searching for loot and
committing deeds of violence. Taking advantage of the crowding and
confusion caused by the passing of Sinclair's chair at a narrow part of
the road, one scoundrel snatched some jewellery from several unprotected
women, twisted bracelets from their arms, and even twitched earrings
from their bleeding ears. It was right in front of Sergeant Gorman's
chair. Then the robber sprang past the chair on the side next the
mountain in his attempt to escape. He was not quick enough.
"Och, you dirty thavin' blackguard, take that!"
A fist shot out of the little opening in the side of the covered chair,
and a blow like that of trip-hammer caught the Chinese on the jaw and
dashed him against the steep hillside. Then, with a spring which
knocked his forward chair-bearer off his feet, Gorman was out in the
open ready for action.
He was none too soon. Supple as a cat, the Chinese had rolled over and,
lying on the ground, was already taking aim. But Gorman was too quick.
The rifle was dashed aside and discharged harmlessly along the mountain
slope. In another instant it was wrenched out of the hands of the
Chinese and flung across the path, down the bank into the river. Then,
gripping his adversary by the neck-band of his short blue jacket, the
Irishman, with one tremendous heave of hand and foot together, lifted
the Chinese clear of the ground and pitched him headlong after his
rifle. The last wild scream of rage and fear ended in the splash of the
falling body. The swift dark water swept it out of sight.
"Begorra, an' ye'll not abuse definseless women anny more!"
At the first sound of Gorman's voice mingling with the shrill clamour of
the Chinese, Sinclair had sprung from his chair with a big .44 revolver
in his hand, ready for action. He did not know what had brought on the
scrimmage. But a glance showed him that, while Gorman was quite able to
cope with the present situation, there was a possibility of serious
danger. A few long strides brought him to where the sergeant had just
flung his opponent down the bank into the river.
The screams of terror of the women redoubled at the sight of the two
foreigners. The size of Sinclair, the fierce vigour of Gorman, the fair
complexions, the foreign dress and foreign weapons of both, brought to
mind the stories they had heard from infancy of the great, green-eyed,
red-faced, hairy barbarians who came from over the sea, who knew not the
rules of good conduct, and who, whenever they got the chance, maltreated
the sons and daughters of Han.
Cries of "Ang-mng! Ang-mng!" (Red-heads), "Hoan-a-kui!" (Foreign
devils) rose above the inarticulate shrieks of fear.
Sergeant Gorman was equal to the occasion. Utterly unmindful of the
wild disorder about him, he busied himself gathering up the articles of
jewellery which the thief had dropped in the struggle. Then with his
best Chinese and profound bows he returned these to the women from whom
they had been torn.
For a moment the terrified women could not realize his meaning. When
they did, their shrill cries of "Ang-mng!" and "Hoan-a-kui!" gave place
to that of "Ho-sim! Ho-sim!" (Good heart).
At the same time the student guide, getting an opportunity to make his
voice heard, was explaining that these were not Frenchmen, but
Englishmen, that they were friends of the missionary, Kai Bok-su, and
that they were doctors going to heal the Chinese who had been wounded in
the battle with the French. Again the cry "Ho-sim!" (Good heart) rose
from the fugitives. Only some of the rascally looters looked at them
with evil eyes and sullen faces.
Sending their chairs back, Dr. Sinclair, Sergeant Gorman, and their
Chinese companions proceeded on foot. Before long they turned off into
a path leading in an easterly direction and soon touched the Chinese
lines. The order from the governor's deputy gained them courteous
treatment, and they were conducted to the general's headquarters at the
village of Loan-Loan.
*XI*
*THE LIFE-HEALER IS COME*
Dr. MacKay had prepared the Chinese commander for their coming. Liu
Ming-chuan lost no time in meaningless formalities. He read their
passports, thanked them for coming, issued orders giving Dr. Sinclair a
free hand in dealing with the sick and wounded, and in half an hour saw
him beginning his work.
"I am glad you have come," said MacKay. "I was sure you would." The
keen black eyes looked straight into Sinclair's blue ones. "I was sure
you would," he repeated. "You want to do good to humanity. I never saw
a time when it was more needed. God sent you here for this very time."
"I hope that may be true," replied Sinclair. "For the present we must
get busy. Have many wounded been brought in?"
"More than a hundred. But I believe that there are many more in the
various forts or on the open hillsides, lying where they fell. There
has been no system about collecting the wounded."
"That will be for you to organize, sergeant--an ambulance corps."
"Bedad, sir, an' if they'll give me the men I ask for I'll train them
till they can pick up a wounded man before he falls."
"That's what we want, sergeant. Meanwhile, Dr. MacKay, what
accommodation can they give us? Just as we went into the governor's you
spoke of a hospital. Have you succeeded in improvising one?"
"That's where we are going now. You can see for yourself. Here we
are."
He turned into a narrow lane. As he did so the pungent odour of
disinfectants reached their nostrils. Another sharp turn and he stopped
at the door of a long, low, but well-built house of durable burned
brick. They had approached it from the back. On the other side two
long buildings extended from each end of the main structure, at right
angles to it, with it forming three sides of a square and enclosing a
large paved courtyard. The fourth side had been shut in by a high fence
of interwoven bamboos. But this had been cleared away. Now the
courtyard opened directly on a beautiful, swift-flowing stream, a branch
of the Tamsui River. Mountains clothed with verdure from base to summit
rose from the farther shore. A soft breeze blew up the river and,
eddying in the courtyard, modified the intense heat. A clump of
feathery bamboos nodded gracefully over the buildings.
On the earthen floor of the houses, on the cobblestones which paved the
courtyard, on the ground outside, quicklime had been plentifully
scattered. A strong odour of carbolic told that other precautions had
been taken.
Sinclair passed through the building with long, swift strides, his eyes
seeing everything. He paused when he reached the river bank and noted
the means provided for the disposal of sewage. Then he turned to
MacKay:
"Had any provision been made for this before you arrived?"
"None."
"Had the Chinese done nothing to care for their wounded?"
"Nothing."
"Did their doctors help you to get this hospital in shape?"
"No. They opposed me all they could."
"MacKay, you're a marvel."
"Do not praise me. You have not looked at the wounded yet. They are
suffering. You must remember that I am not a qualified medical doctor.
I am a preacher of the gospel. I know little of medicine, and almost
nothing of surgery."
"The more wonder that you have accomplished so much!"
"It is my work. My Master not only healed the souls of men, but
relieved the suffering of their bodies. To the best of my ability I try
to do the same."
"You're right. That's what we're here for--to make life better for as
many as we can. There are a lot here who need our help. Let us get
busy."
They stepped again into the main building and stood in the narrow
passage between the rows of bare trestle boards which served as beds.
Wounded men were lying there as close together as was possible and yet
leave room for a doctor to step in beside them. There was a hum of
conversation, but very little moaning, and rarely a cry of pain. The
Chinese, so noisy in their times of sorrow or of joy, so clamorous in
their excitement, are strangely silent in pain and bear suffering
stoically.
Dr. MacKay lifted his voice so that all could hear, speaking in Chinese.
"Friends," he said, "the physician of whom I told you has come. Listen
to him. Submit to his treatment. Do what he tells you. He will heal
you. He will give you your lives again."
At the sound of his voice all other voices were hushed. Thin brown
forms turned painfully on the bare boards; rows of black heads were
raised from the hard bolsters; black eyes looked out of bronze or
ghastly yellow faces at the fair giant who towered above the
black-bearded missionary; from lip to lip the word passed down the
lines:
"I-seng lai![#] I-seng lai!" (The doctor is come. Literally, the
life-healer is come.)
[#] Pronounced, Ee-see-ung li.
Without a word Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and
went to work. Sergeant Gorman and one of MacKay's students went first,
preparing each case for treatment. Sinclair followed, with MacKay to
assist and interpret and another student to carry basins of water.
[Illustration: Sinclair threw off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and
went to work]
The wounds were nearly all caused by shells or shrapnel. There were no
clean wounds by rifle bullets. The range had been too great and the
Chinese too well protected behind their fortifications. The
mitrailleuses had accomplished little. They were noisy, terrifying,
spectacular, but ineffective. Only once had a machine gun done much
execution. A part of the fortifications on the east side of the harbour
had been rendered untenable by the heavy shell-fire. A body of Chinese
regulars were retreating to the new fort in too close formation. The
marines working a mitrailleuse in the _Villars'_ tops, found their range
perfectly and poured a stream of bullets into their midst, killing many
and threatening the whole detachment with extermination. But just at
the critical moment the quick-firer jammed, and all the oaths and
efforts of the squad could not get it into working order again until the
Chinese were under cover.
The sights were all the more ghastly, the suffering the more intense,
the prospects of recovery the fewer because the death-dealing had been
done by shell and shrapnel. There was nothing clean-cut about their
work. A fragment of shell had shorn away a man's left shoulder, taking
with it the joint, but missing the axillary artery and part of the great
breast muscle, by which the arm still hung.
Sinclair glanced at MacKay. The latter understood:
"Better not have an amputation first thing. They are ignorant and
suspicious."
"I thought so. Anyway, I do not want to take time to amputate now.
We'll dress it and amputate later."
A shrapnel shell had exploded close to another's side. The hip, part of
the pelvis, and much of the flesh had been shredded away, exposing the
working of the organs of the abdomen. It was not good to see. From
that ghastly rent blood-poisoning had already set in. There was nothing
to be done. They made him as easy as possible on the hard boards of his
cot, administered an opiate, and left him to sleep till the last sleep
should fall upon him.
One had been struck just above the ear, and a chip of his skull three
inches in diameter shot away, leaving his brain uncovered.
"He will die. We'll make him comfortable in the meantime."
A fragment had caught another on the cheek, and his lower jaw was gone.
"Better if he would die, too. It would be a mercy to let him out easy.
But, no; if God gives him a chance, so must I. We'll patch him up."
More to himself than to any one else, he was speaking in a low tone.
All the while the doctor's hands were busy dressing, soothing, trimming,
mending, healing those poor, shattered bodies of ignorant Asiatic
peasants, the weak atoms of humanity which a great European nation had
sent her mighty engines of death to destroy--the pitiful trophies of
glorious war. And not one of those brown or yellow men had the faintest
glimmer of an idea what the war was about, or why his poor body had been
maltreated so. The foreign devils had come to take his land and he had
been set to defend it. That was all he knew.
Stranger still was what these other foreign devils were doing. They
were trying to heal him. One set of foreign devils by their magic had
knocked his fortifications to pieces, mangled his body, and brought him
to the verge of death. And now another set of foreign devils, by some
other magic, were patching his broken body together again and bringing
it back to life. He could not understand.
But some way or another those last foreigners grew into his confidence.
There was something in the words of that barbarian with the long black
beard, who spoke their language more perfectly than they did themselves,
which quieted him and gave him hope. There was something about the
great, red-haired giant,[#] who did not seem to understand their
language at all and yet seemed to understand at once what his sufferings
were and how to heal them, which inspired him with confidence. It might
be magic he was using, but it must be good magic. Before him men were
writhing restlessly on their wooden beds, sometimes moaning,
occasionally uttering an agonized "ai-yah," ever and anon asking
plaintively for water or tea. Behind him they lay back peacefully and,
with few exceptions, went to sleep.
[#] The Chinese do not distinguish between the different shades of fair
hair. All that is not jet black, is called red.
So all down the rows of improvised cots heads were raised, yellow or
brown faces were turned, and black eyes, some anxious, some curious,
still more wistful, watched every movement of the foreign doctor. His
size, the massive head with its crown of wavy, fair hair, his huge
shoulders, his bare arms, powerful and white beside their skinny brown
ones, all were noted. Why did he wash his hands so often? It was a part
of his magic. What was he going to do with that knife? Was he going to
cut the man's heart out? No, he used it on one farther down, and now the
man was sitting up drinking tea. So they watched, and so confidence
grew. And at every movement the doctor made from cot to cot, the word
"I-seng lai" (the life-healer is coming) was passed from one to another
of the patients.
The sun had sunk behind the hills and night was coming on. Smoky
Chinese lamps and one good lantern belonging to MacKay were lighted.
Still Sinclair worked on.
"You had better stop long enough to get something to eat," said MacKay.
"Thank you, MacKay; but I haven't time just now. Minutes mean lives to
some of these men."
"Well, you must take a cup of tea. The boy will bring some to you
here."
"Very well."
Standing at the foot of a cot studying a case, he hastily gulped down
several tiny native cups of tea, without either sugar or milk. Then he
was at work again.
The night was wearing on--the dark, close, hot night, with a temperature
only a couple of degrees cooler than in the middle of the day. Still he
worked swiftly, certainly, almost silently. What a transformation from
the evening before, at the consul's dinner party! The lazy grace of the
big, powerful frame, which had caught the consul's eye, was gone. Every
line of the body, every play of muscles spoke of intense, forceful
energy, and yet energy which was under perfect control. The physical
strength which enabled him to lift a man like a child in his hands, or
draw with apparent ease a dislocated hip-joint back into its place--the
same self-controlled strength made his touch in another case as light as
that of a delicate woman. The look of good-humoured interest with which
he had studied the characteristics of his fellow-guests, or bandied
repartee with Miss MacAllister, or amused the company with his songs,
was gone. It was still a kindly face, a face which inspired confidence
in even those ignorant Chinese soldiers over whom he bent. But no one
who looked into that face would lightly trifle with the man in his
present mood.
Every one present felt it. MacKay, something of an autocrat in his own
sphere, read the face of the man beside him and never, except at his
command to interpret for him or to give desired assistance, offered a
suggestion. A group of Chinese officers came in, manifesting their
usual supercilious air towards foreigners. Talking loudly and pushing
inquisitively forward, they got in Sinclair's way.
"Tell these fellows to shut their mouths and keep out of my road."
MacKay interpreted it, more courteously perhaps, but forcibly. It was
in silence and at a respectful distance that the Chinese officers
continued to look on. Presently some more came in, louder spoken and
more inquisitive than the first.
"Tell that last bunch to get out. The rest can stay if they want. Tell
their senior officer to set a guard. I'll have no more in here except
on business."
It was done.
The night wore on. Some of the hopeless cases found relief in death.
From time to time others were brought in to take their places. Some of
these had now been nearly forty-eight hours since being wounded, lying
out in the long grass and brushwood of the hillsides or crawling slowly,
painfully towards safety. Worse still, some had been through the hands
of native quack doctors.
The brief, grey dawn, followed by the swift sunrise, took the place of
the night. Still Sinclair worked on, for still the pleading, wistful
eyes of suffering men were watching his movements and still he heard
them say in words whose meaning he had come to understand:
"I-seng lai" (The life-healer comes).
As he straightened himself after bending over a patient, Sergeant Gorman
saluted him:
"Excuse me, sir; but a bad case has just come in. If I am not mistaken,
it is more in need of immediate treatment than any of the others I have
seen."
The jocular manner, the excessive brogue, the constant tendency to bulls
and repetitions had dropped from Sergeant Gorman like a cloak. His
manner was serious; his accent hardly noticeable; his bearing that of a
thoroughly capable and efficient officer on important duty.
"What is the injury, sergeant?"
"A hand shot off at the wrist. The poor devil tied a cord around it to
stop the blood. Been that way for two days without dressing. It's
badly swollen, gangrened, and fly-blown."
"Very well, sergeant. I guess we'll have to amputate at once. Where is
the patient?"
"In the operating tent."
Swiftly, surely the work was done, and the man carried back to a cot of
boards in the improvised hospital.
Sinclair was turning back to the wards to attend to other cases when an
exclamation from MacKay arrested him:
"Lee Ban! Is it possible?"
A sampan had come down with the current and run its bow ashore at the
hospital. A man was lifted out and deposited on the bank, up which he
crawled painfully on hands and knees. His face was drawn and ghastly
with suffering. His clothing, which had once been rich, was torn to
ribbons.
It was Lee Ban, one of the wealthiest merchants of Keelung. He had sent
his family away to safety earlier, but had to stay himself till the day
of the bombardment. When escaping from the town a shell had exploded
near his chair. A fragment had passed through the bottom of it, at the
same time shearing away the entire calf from one of his legs. He had
paid the chair-bearers generously. But they fled for their lives and
left him where he lay. He had the name of being the most charitable
citizen of Keelung, and he saw many a one that day whom he had helped
with his means. But they rushed past him, utterly unheeding. War had
kindled in them the primal instinct of self-preservation, and had
subordinated every human feeling to brute fear.
He bound his leg as best he could and started to crawl towards safety.
All day he crept on hands and knees, and through the night until he lay
exhausted and unconscious. In the morning he bribed some soldiers who
were searching for wounded to carry him to the camp. They took him to a
native doctor, who plastered the great open wound with a mixture of mud
and cow-dung. Then he heard that Kai Bok-su was here, and the foreign
doctor. He had himself brought to them.
While he told his story in Chinese to MacKay, Sergeant Gorman and his
helpers had carried him to a cot and were unbandaging the leg for the
doctor's inspection.
"For the love of heaven!"
The great, gaping wound, extending from the knee to the ankle, was alive
with maggots.
This also is one of the glories of war.
*XII*
*MATUTINAL CONFIDENCES*
Eight o'clock on the morning Dr. Sinclair left Tamsui for the front
found the consul in the breakfast room. Clean-shaven, dressed in
spotless white, he looked as cool and fresh, and was as prompt to the
minute, as if he had enjoyed a perfect night's rest. A moment or two
later Mrs. Beauchamp entered.
"Good-morning, Harry. I am afraid that I have disgraced myself by being
late," she said with a little mock anxiety.
"Not at all, my dear. My wife is never late. I think my watch is a few
seconds fast."
"Thank you, Harry. You always find an excuse for me."
"Oh, no! it is not that," replied her husband, as if ashamed that he
should allow any partiality to cause him to swerve from his rigid rule
of punctuality. "Really, I am a little ahead of time. I'm deuced hungry
this morning. I could hardly wait for Ah Soon to get breakfast ready."
"What time did you come to bed last night? I believe that I did not
hear you at all."
"You certainly did not. You were sleeping so soundly that the French
might have bombarded Tamsui and come ashore and carried you off without
you waking."
"Oh, Harry! I think that's real mean of you. You know perfectly that I
know your step and movements so well, that I sleep just as soundly when
you are moving about as when there is absolute silence. But any other
person's step would waken me at once."
"You're right there. I do not believe that you heard me this morning,
either."
"No, I did not. What time did you rise? I think it is not a bit fair
of you to steal out of bed like that without awaking me. And then to
wait down here with your watch in your hand to catch me ten seconds
late! I do not like that. I have a mind to get offended."
"Hold! This is getting tragic.
'You've ungently, Brutus,
Stole from my bed . . . . . . . .
You stared upon me with ungentle looks.
. . . . . . then you scratch'd your head,
And too impatiently stamped with your foot.'