borne across the Square under a Japanese guard! The little sentries at
the edge of town have been busy, this sweet-smelling morning after the
rain! Even at the distance, Routledge perceives that the Englishman’s
face is warmed with a lust for murder, and he hears the Englishman’s
voice demanding _his_ Consul. Bingley is borne into the garrison,
and his voice and step are heard throughout the halls. The voice
continues--as he is locked in the apartment next to Routledge’s.
Fifteen dreadful minutes. Bingley is a noisy, unlovely devil in the
next room, beating against his bars. Routledge remembers what Hans
Breittmann said of the caged orang-outang: “There is too much ego
in his cosmos.” The “Horse-killer” does not know that his rival is
so near--as he cries unto his heaven of martial law, for artillery
to shoot his way out of this town of beastly, pig-headed Japanese
coolies!... A Consul appears in the Square. It is not the natty Milner,
but an elderly Briton, with a cane and a presence, who just now asks to
be shown to Mr. Bingley.... The two talk softly for several minutes--a
harsh interval for Routledge.
“I shall do what I can as promptly as possible, Mr. Bingley--trust
me,” concludes the Consul, and his cane sounds upon the flags once
more--diminuendo.
“Remember, I must be on my way at once,” the “Horse-killer” shouts
after him.
Seven-twenty. Where was Milner?... Routledge wondered bitterly if the
Gods of War had turned their faces from him at last. A low laugh from
Bingley. Milner was crossing the Square hastily, but did not approach
the garrison--instead was admitted to the big building occupied by the
Japanese headquarters.
“God, I’d hate to have to depend upon an American Consul at a time like
this,” is heard from the “Horse-killer.”
Routledge’s nerve was taxed to smile at this.... Seven-thirty. Consul
Milner reappears in the Square, this time followed by two Japanese
officers of rank.... Routledge’s door is unlocked, and he is called out
into the hall.
“This is the gentleman--and I’ll vouch for him.” Milner observes,
holding out his hand to Routledge. “Weed, my boy, how are you? Missed
the train last night at Yopanga, I suppose, and came down the river.
Didn’t you know we’re a closed port down here?”
“Yes, but I knew _you_ were here, Consul. The battle’s on at Liaoyang,
I understand.”
The eyes of the men managed to meet. The Japanese officers bowed
politely, and the two Americans left the garrison.... Bingley’s voice
is loudly upraised. The Japanese officers politely inform him that the
order for his release has not yet reached them.
“Milner,” said Routledge, “would it complicate matters if I fell upon
your neck and wept?”
“Wait till we catch the train, Weed. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
the Consul whispered.
“Badly.”
“So I concluded when I got the slip from you. That’s why I went to
headquarters to fix things before coming here--saved a few minutes.
Also I told my Chino to get up the carriage. It’ll be ready.... Our
British friend will have to get his business transacted at once or he
won’t get off for Shanhaikwan this morning.... Great God, Weed, did you
get the battle--any of it?”
“I was with the left wing all day yesterday, Consul--it seems like
a month ago. Oku was beating his brains out against the Russian
intrenchments.”
They were crossing the Square. Bingley’s voice reached them: “Oh, I
say, American Consul, prod up my man a bit--won’t you?”
The agonized face behind the bars took the edge off his own success to
Routledge. He knew what these moments meant to the “Horse-killer.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not on speaking terms with the British Consul,”
Milner observed lightly to Routledge, as they hurried to the carriage.
“I take it that Kuroki has crossed the Taitse--what have you heard?”
Routledge inquired quickly.
“Just that much,” Milner replied. “The Japanese here say that Oyama
will enter the city to-day. Kuroki pontooned the river two days ago.
What you saw was the terrific effort of the Japanese to hold the bulk
of the Russian army in the city and below while Kuroki flanked.”
“Exactly. I’m doing the story on those lines. I’ll be in Shanhaikwan
to-night. You’ll get the decision to-day probably--wire me anywhere
along the route, Consul?”
“Of course.”
“The _World-News_ will get you Tokyo for your next post,” Routledge
said with a laugh. “All I need is the single sentence--‘Oyama wins’ or
‘Oyama loses.’ By the way, the Japanese have got two good horses of
mine----”
“I’ll see to them.”
The carriage reached the station at two minutes before eight.
“It looks as if you had it all your own way, Weed,” Milner observed
with a laugh. “God! you’ve got the world at your feet--the greatest
newspaper chance in years. You’ll give ’em a story that will rip up the
States. Show ’em pictures--never mind the featureless skeleton--show
’em pictures, Weed!”
“I’ll try, Consul,” said Routledge, with feeling.
The station-boys were clanging their bells. The eyes of both men were
fixed upon a clot of dust far down the road.
“Weed, my boy,” said Milner excitedly, “the race isn’t won yet. Your
rival is going to make the train.”
The huge figure of the “Horse-killer” was sprinting toward them, less
than two hundred yards away.
“So I observe,” said Routledge. “You’ll have to give me one more lift,
Consul. A man who can run like that will be rather hard to beat over
the half-mile course from the train to the cable-office in Shanhaikwan
at seven to-night. Wire Borden, the American Combined Press man there,
to arrange for me at the cable-office, and to meet me when the train
pulls in to-night, with the fastest saddle-horse in Shanhaikwan--none
but the fastest will do. I’ll win the half-mile!”
The train was leaving the station. Bingley caught the railing of the
first-class coach, swung on, and staggered by Routledge into the car.
Milner signified with a final gesture that he would look after the
rights of America and the _World-News_. Bingley, panting hoarsely, was
stretched out in his compartment when the American entered. He did not
look up, and no word passed between them. For a moment Routledge hoped
it might be different--that day might bring to him something of the
life or death of Jerry Cardinegh. As the alleged author of the Indian
treachery, he could not bring himself to seek the other’s notice. He
wondered if Bingley had used the crime charged against him, to hold him
in Wangcheng. This would have been natural; certainly he had whispered
to the British Consul in the garrison. At all events, the swiftness
of Milner’s efforts in his behalf had killed the result of such an
intent. Routledge fell asleep. It was after ten when he awoke.
The “Horse-killer” was writing steadily, swiftly, fighting sleep,
his eyes cocked open like a stuffed bird’s, and referring often to
a carefully crowded note-book, the like of which he had carried in
India.... Routledge started on his story. An hour’s sleep had quieted
his brain a trifle. Before, his thoughts had darted about, like tumbler
pigeons at play--in that queer light fashion of extreme fatigue. With
the structure placed, he began to spend the great coiled chronicle at a
swift, steady pressure. For the first time in his life he turned loose
all that he had for a newspaper. The hurl of power glorified him for
the time--work’s chaste and lofty joy--until he was beyond misery or
any earthly evil. Without thinking, he turned to Bingley at last:
“We both want the free cable at Shanhaikwan,” he said briefly. “One of
us will reach it first. It might be well to arrange for the winner to
turn over the wire--at the end of, say, two hours--then both London and
New York would have the story in the morning.”
“No,” said the “Horse-killer” coldly. “I shall put on whole story at
once, and there will be five columns or more of it.”
Routledge laughed inwardly, surprised at himself for speaking, and just
a little appalled at the grim nerve of the other. In the great glow
from his work, he had followed a generous impulse to give Bingley and
the _Thames_ a chance that night--on the basis of his meeting a man
at Shanhaikwan, with the best horse in the town. In the emancipation
of high expression, the sense of rivalry had been lost, and he saw
that Bingley was entitled to no little consideration, even if he were
beaten by a nose to the cable-door. Routledge went on with his work,
his compunctions eased.
At Koupangtze, the half-way station, there was a stop for ten minutes.
Bingley improved the time by close conversation with an Englishman
on the station platform. Routledge, who remained in his compartment,
wondered with animation, as Bingley passed the other a sum of money, if
he were arranging with the Englishman to telegraph for a horse to meet
_him_ at the train in Shanhaikwan. Could there be two fastest horses at
the end of the run?
All that afternoon, as they crossed the brownest, most level and
ancient country on earth, two correspondents toiled with words and
a battle. At the little town of Shenkau, Routledge heard the name
of “Weed” called in a laughable intonation by a Chinese boy on the
platform. He reached out and took the telegram. Milner had not allowed
a single sentence to suffice. Here is the message:
Oyama entered Liaoyang to-day. Russians in flight to Mukden. Russian
rear-guard still fighting. Flanking movement successful. Show ’em
pictures.
The gods of war had been good to him, indeed. He ran the telegram
entire, at the head of his story. An hour later the Great Wall appeared
to his tired eyes. His capacity to express or thrill at a thought was
utterly gone. Every film of the battle which his brain had caught, all
that he had desired to say, had been re-done in pencil. He folded the
sheets and put them away with his credentials and cable-frank. The
early twilight was soft and warm. The Great Wall cast a long shadow
as the train passed through its single break. The sea was gilded and
crimson-touched with the sunset. Shanhaikwan station is but a half-mile
from the Wall. Already huts and burial-mounds were passed--dull brown
in the dusk.... They were in a free land now; the zone of war and
censorship lay behind. It was a dramatic moment.
Each correspondent arose. Each correspondent glanced at the heels of
the other and found _spurs_!
Bingley made his way toward the rear-platform; Routledge took the
other. Leaning far out, as the train pulled into the station, Routledge
saw Borden and the black stallion--hopped off and ran to him. A
China-boy holding the nervous, prick-eared mount stood beside the
Combined Press man. Routledge leaped into the saddle. With the tail of
his eye he saw Bingley rushing along the platform toward a gray mount.
“They’re looking for you at the cable-office,” Borden yelled. “Don’t
burn out the wire!”
Half of Europe and a touch of Asia were represented in the faces on the
platform. Meeting the night-train was the chief of the day’s social
obligations in Shanhaikwan. To-night everybody was down to get the
last fresh word from the field. The crowd sensed distantly that rival
correspondents had come in, and that a great newspaper race was on,
from the platform to the cable-office.... Spurring across the sandy
station-yard, the heart of Routledge lifted to the splendid spirit
of the game. He glanced around at the beating hoofs behind. Bingley
was straining forward in the saddle, furiously rowelling his gray....
Above the cheering, Routledge heard his name called, and the face of
Talliaferro appeared in the crowd, blurred as in a dream. Then came a
voice that incited all his senses.... He did not see her. He thought it
was in his soul.
“Routledge-san! Win--ride to win!” Then a trailing “Routledge ... san!”
The Hate of London was not in the face of Talliaferro.... As he rode,
the heavenly lifting of the moment almost pulled him out of the race
at hand.... “Win--ride to win!... Routledge-san!”... He spurred. The
black answered. Veritably, he was a night-streak whirring cableward....
Routledge knew every step of the way. The day would have been lost,
were he forced to halt for direction.... Past the Rest House, through
the mud-hut quarter, breaking a detachment of Sikh infantry, he led the
race--Bingley, unable to gain, back in the shadows, shouting, rowelling!
There was some meaning to his words, but Routledge did not think of
them, until the gun-talk.... One shot stood out by itself--and four
followed.... The black sprawled.... Routledge found himself coughing,
but cleared grandly from the fallen mount, and crossed the threshold
of the cable-office. He realized that he had fallen with the mount,
but it made no impression. His hands were bleeding. He met the dust
full-length. He knew that he staggered a bit as the operator leaped
over the counter and caught him in his arms....
“I’m Weed of the _World-News_.... Borden arranged for me. Here’s the
copy, credentials, cable-permit.”
“I’ve been waiting for you, Weed.... You’re shot--my God!”
Bingley entered, his face terrible but frightened. He glanced at the
man who had beaten him--from head to foot.... Routledge was leaning
against the counter, his clothing caked with dust, a laugh on his face,
dripping blood from a wound under his coat.
“I didn’t mean to hit you--I tried to get your horse!” Bingley gasped.
“You did. Go out and finish him.... You’re not much of a shot from the
saddle--or perhaps you lost your nerve, Bingley.... Any way, I am long
over-due for a wound.... Get a surgeon. I’m hard-hit. Hurry!”
Routledge dropped forward on the counter, closing his eyes. Bingley
disappeared. The operator was unfastening his clothes.
“Don’t mind me--until the doctor comes--but start my stuff going....
By the way, in a couple of hours, if it goes steadily, break in on my
stuff and give Bingley a head-line in the _Thames_ to-morrow. He only
meant to get my horse--I see that. A man takes liberty in shooting a
horse from under another--but never mind. There’s always room for two
at the top!”
* * * * *
“He was shot from behind--a bad wound, but not necessarily a fatal
one.... It hit him under the right-shoulder-blade,” the doctor was
saying.
Routledge felt choky and very tired. His consciousness wavered back
and forth like the throw of wind under a punkah when the coolies are
fresh.... There was a light running step outside.... He was to go down
close to the Gates with a lock on his lips.... His lips were tightened.
First of all, there was a sweet breath of wind, like one of the best
memories of early life.... He wanted to rub his eyes, but the surgeon
held his hands.... Noreen’s voice was quick and tragic. The word “die”
was uttered.
“No,” the doctor repeated; “not necessarily a fatal wound. I’ve ordered
a carriage. We’ll take him to the Rest House.”
* * * * *
Noreen--the Leper Valley--the Russian music--the Shanghai Bund--Charing
Cross--the carriage--the hovel in Rydamphur--the night in
Bookstalls--Noreen--that he must be silent in delirium--these were the
waves of consciousness.... He felt her hand, her lips, upon his brow.
Even if it were just a vision, he wanted to welcome her with a smile,
but his lips were locked.
“Oh, you martyr--you blessed martyr!... Don’t you know me,
Routledge-san?”
“Is it true, Noreen? Are you here?”
“With you always, beloved.”
A frown fell upon his face. “I just came in from Liaoyang for the
cable. It isn’t good for you to be with me.”
“My Master--don’t you know Father is dead, and that he was sane to
confess at the last?... Feeney and Finacune were there.”
The eyes of Routledge found her.
“Just a minute, doctor,--I must say this.... Noreen, don’t speak of it
again--the others need not know! Your father was the best and bravest
of our breed----”
“Strongheart!... London knows; Tokyo knows; every British correspondent
cabled it to his paper that night, months ago; there are crowns of
vine-leaves for you in the heart of every friend of yours; the Secret
Service knows----”
“But your good name, Noreen----” he faltered.
“My name is Routledge for eternity,” she answered, and the famous eyes
bent to lull him.... “Sleep, my lover, sleep.... I shall always be with
you now!”
TWENTY-FOURTH CHAPTER
THE GREAT FRIEZE COAT AND THE WOMAN JOURNEY DOWN THE COAST OF CHINA
TOGETHER, AND CROSS INDIA TO THE LEPER VALLEY
No one hurried a destroyer after this torpedo of a man, the
“Horse-killer.” Now and then a Bingley bullet, when it is not aimed too
accurately, gives a tired man a rest which his energy would not permit
by any less drastic measure. Certain heroic temperaments must needs
receive a jolt every little while to force them to lie down.
There are two kinds of men in the world--those who have a sense of
brotherhood, and those whose every thought is an explosion designed
to increase their own personal impetus. The one makes war; the other
peace. Perhaps the ultimate relation between the two is suggested in
the race for the cable--and its result.
Routledge healed in a month, and incidentally found his first rest in
years. Noreen was with him--a tremendous thing. The two had been long
apart, pent and hungering.... Meanwhile, the world read and commented
upon the great story of Liaoyang. Bingley’s story led in London.
On their last day in Shanhaikwan, they walked along the Wall--Routledge
and Noreen--and that night were together in the Yellow Sea. The
ship was the _Tung Shing_, a little steamer that breasted the
waves in her own way, but quite correctly. So clean and clever was
she, that everyone was refreshed. There were no distractions, nor
counter-attractions, and every night-view was beautiful. The loom of
the Wu Tung light was over the shoulder of the East, and a cliff to
avoid on the starboard. A rising wind decided not to bother, and boomed
away north, before the near sea was aroused to a fit of temper.
Routledge was so happy that he did not care for utterance. Noreen
drank the chill breeze in silence for a long time. Once she placed her
hand upon the sleeve of the great frieze coat.... Thus they sailed
down the variegated and populous coast of China--a different breath
from every big and little harbor. Noreen caught them all and was glad,
divining far at sea the places she had tarried, but Routledge was
Asia and countless continents to her. One night when only the pilot
and the ship-lights and themselves were burning, the thought came to
embrace--but they refrained.
Presently they were down to Singapore; then across to Calcutta, where
the Ganges opens her mighty throats to the sea; then up by devious
travels--to catch the breath of the Hills after the Heats. Morning
and nightfall, Routledge looked down into Noreen’s eyes and found his
world. Night-winds of India soothed them, though apart. And they had
their thoughts of the day’s travel together.
At length, up over the crest of the world in their wanderings, they
looked, from the amethyst Himalayas, down upon that strange dead
civilization of China, a vista for eagles. Tight in the heart of it was
the Leper Valley.
This is reached by one of the lost trails of the world. A few gallant
explorers have picked the way, but failed to publish since the people
would think such a report a fiction, and their reputations for veracity
be broken. Traders pass the rim of the gap regularly, but do not know
it.
Routledge had learned it from a Sannyasi. The way is tortuous and a
bit perilous, so he arranged for Noreen and himself to follow a party
of traders. Among these men was a Boy. There was cleanness in his gray
eye, and you could not think of taint and look at his cheeks so ruddy
under the tan. The Boy searched Noreen’s face with the guilelessness of
a child and the valor of a man. When he rode beside her, the air that
she breathed was new.
Of course the saddle was torture to her, a cumulative torture with the
hours, but it was only physical, and night bore down with the sleep
of healing, from the twilight of evening to the twilight of dawn. The
journey melted into a strange composite of cool mountain winds; brief,
warm showers which released the fragrance of the valleys; humans in
dim doors and upon the highways, held, as they passed, in tableaux of
freezing horror--suffering, sunlight, sleep. And always ancient China
unfolded greater vistas of hills, fields, huts, and glowering yellow
faces; and always the Boy walked beside and served--a ragged chaperon.
Routledge would smile on his way and note the large relation. The
traders, too, were respectful--brave men whom the Open had kept mainly
pure. There is a curse upon a white man in Asia, if he relaxes.
Once the Boy said: “Don’t be afraid, lady. This is the sleepiest part
of China. Any way, I would take care of you.”
Routledge bent over from his mount and patted the Boy’s shoulder.
They parted by the wayside with a smile--the Boy and Noreen. She
proffered him her purse, but he answered:
“I don’t want that. But any time I can help you--hail out! What are you
going to do--stopping off here?”
She threw a kiss to him, but did not answer. The traders were far
ahead, and the Boy turned his back.
“The world has gone,” Noreen said, after they had walked long through a
tangled way. “Look below.”
“Yes--the Leper Valley--our bravest man!”
It was mid-afternoon. Routledge paused at the verge of a steep
declivity, and they saw a radiant hollow evenly rimmed by mountains on
every side. A lake gleamed at the bottom of this finger-bowl of the
Gods, and moist tropical perfumes were borne softly upward with a far
sound of bells--faint as the tinkle of drops of water falling upon thin
metal.
And together they went down into the fragrance. Noreen could feel her
heart; she could feel her soul; and too there was an enchanting beauty
in this delve of the world. It sustained. It was so wonderful--like a
child laughing alone in paradise! There was a sound of chimes in the
vast silence, and God seemed to speak above.
The thatches below were trimmed and even. There were spaces between
them, and from the heights these spaces had the clean look of a brown
polished floor. There was depth and purity in the green of the lake,
and the little temple, in the midst of its gardens, was white as Truth.
* * * * *
They were in a swept and shaded village. The woman was walking swiftly,
her lips parted, her eyes feverishly bright. Routledge laughed quietly
at her ardor to see the man whom his heart knew to be there and always
waiting. The huts seemed deserted, except for those _who could not
leave_.
A voice reached them at last--the voice that had echoed through the
inner consciousness of each so long.... His back was toward them. The
people upon the earth before him, they did not see--save as factors of
the scene. Swiftly they moved forward now.
Rawder’s hand was raised in the sunlight. It was slender, nervously
responsive to his emotion--but whole, _whole_! A little way off they
halted, inspired by a glimpse of his profile.... It was the face of the
man who had climbed to the roof of the world, lived through ice and
flame; it was sun-darkened, storm-bitten, gaunt from suffering under
the irons of self-repression, mystical in its manifestation of a cosmos
within. It was the face of an exile who has felt the hate of man, the
absence of women, and the Presence of God. And it was whole, _whole_.
He turned suddenly and saw the two standing together. There was
something beautiful in his bewilderment, and in the expression of
sadness which followed--since this was to be his last meeting with
Routledge. A gesture, and the lowly ones were dismissed; and when the
temple-court was empty, save for the Three--they joined hands.
Whispering, he led them into the temple gardens at the edge of the
lake. The water was glorified in the sunset, and by the stones of his
doorway the drowsy lilies drank the last rays. Magicians of ancient
and wondrous patience had conserved the verdure and mastered the
flowerings. There were none but flawless leaves and none but classic
blooms. The pebbles on the shore had been touched into mosaics, and
the vines which fixed the coolness in the stones of his dwelling had
seemingly been guided into perfection by fingers in the night. Out of
love his people served him; out of love they had charmed a fountain
from the ground near his doorway; placed sounding-shells to lure music
from the dropping water, and forced Emperor roses lavishly to arise and
shelter and perfume his bathing-place.
“All these things my people have done for me, blessed friends,” Rawder
said, “and all I asked when I came was to share a hut with the least of
them.”