CHAPTER XII
No member of the earth's great brotherhood of dangerous waterways isblessed with quite the degree of peril which menaces those hardy oneswho dare the River of the Golden Sands.
Bobbie MacLauren's steamer, the _Hankow_, was the net result of longship-building experience. Dozens of apparently seaworthy boats havegone up the Yangtze-Kiang, not to return. After years of experiment asomewhat satisfactory river-boat has been evolved. It combines thesturdiness of a sea-going tug with the speed of a torpedo-boatdestroyer.
The _Hankow_ was ridiculously small, and monstrously strong. Chieflyit consisted of engines and boilers. Despite their security, despitethe shipwrecks and deaths that have been poured into their presentdesign, Yangtze river-boats sink, a goodly crop of them, every season.
But the world of commerce is an arrogant master. There is wealth inthe land bordering the upper reaches of the river. This wealth must bebrought down to the sea, and scattered to the lands beyond the sea. Inreturn, machinery and tools must be carried back to mine and farm thewealth.
Little is heard, less is told, and still less is written of the men whodare the rapids and the rocks and the sands of the great river.Sometimes the spirit of adventure sends them up the Yangtze.Frequently, as is the case with men who depart unexplainedly upondangerous errands, a woman is the inspiration, or merely the cause.
Miss Amy Vost, of New York City, but more recently of Amoy, China,province Fu-Kien, was the generator in the case of Bobbie MacLaurin.
When Miss Vost tripped blithely aboard the _Sunyado Maru_, anchored offthe breaks of Amoy, and captured, at first blush, the hearts of theentire forward crew, Bobbie MacLaurin was the most eager prisoner ofthe lot.
Perhaps she took notice of him out of the corner of her glowing youngeyes long before he became seriously and mortally afflicted. Certainlythe first mate of the _Sunyado Maru_ was no believer in the theory ofnon-resistance.
Had Miss Vost been a susceptible young woman, it is safe to assume thatBobbie MacLaurin would not have accepted command of the _Hankow_ fromtide-water to that remote Chinese city, Ching-Fu.
He wooed her in the pilot-house--where passengers were never allowed;he courted her in the dining-room; and he paid marked attention to herat all hours of the day and night, in sundry nooks and corners of thegenerous promenade deck.
Miss Vost sparred with him. As well as being lovely and captivating,she was clever. She seemed to agree with the rule of the philosopherwho held that conversation was given to mankind simply for purposes ofevasion. By the end of the first week Bobbie MacLaurin was earningsour glances from his staid British captain, and glances not at allencouraging from Miss Vost.
He informed her that all of the beauty and all of the wonder of thestars, the sea, the moonlight, could not equal the splendor of herwide, gray eyes. She replied that the moon, the stars, and the sea hadgone to his head.
He insisted that her smile could only be compared to the sunrise on adewy rose-vine. He threw his big, generous heart at her feet a hundredtimes. Being fair and sympathetic, she did not kick it to one side.She merely side-stepped.
He closed that evening's interview with the threat that he would followher to the very ends of the earth. She gave him the opportunity,literally, by observing dryly that her destination was precisely at theworld's end--in the hills of Szechuen, to be exact.
He took the breath out of her mouth by saying that he would travel onthe same river-boat with her to Ching-Fu, if he had to scrub down decksfor his passage. She told him not to be a silly boy; that he was,underneath his uncouthness, really a dear, but that he didn't knowwomen.
When the _Sunyado Maru_ dropped anchor off Woo-sung, Miss Vost letBobbie hold her hand an instant longer than was necessary, andstubbornly refused to accompany him in the same sampan--or the sametug--to the customs jetty. Summarily, she went up the Whang-poo allalone, while Bobbie, biting his finger-nails, purposely quarreled withthe staid British captain, and was invited to sign off, which he did.
Through devious subterranean channels Bobbie MacLaurin found that theberth of master on the _Hankow_ was vacant, the latest incumbent havingrelinquished his spirit to cholera. Was he willing to assume thetremendous responsibility? He was tremendously willing! Did hepossess good papers? He most assuredly did!
When the Shanghai express rolled into the Nanking station, BobbieMacLaurin climbed into a rattling rickshaw and clattered off in thedirection of the river-front, registering the profound hope that MissVost had somehow managed to reach the _Hankow_ ahead of him. PeterMoore, who knew China's ancient capital like a book, struck off in adiagonal direction on foot.
He made his way to a Chinese tailor's, who bought from him the Japanesecostume and sold him a suit of gray tweeds, which another customer hadfailed to call for. While not an adornment, the gray tweeds werecomfortably European, a relief from the flapping, clumsy kimono.
He wanted to have a little talk with Miss Vost before she saw Bobbie.He had so much affection for Bobbie that he wanted to ask Miss Vost toplease not be unnecessarily cruel with him. He did not know that MissVost was never unnecessarily cruel to any living creature; for he madethe mistake there of classifying all women into the good and the cruel,of which Miss Vost seemed to be among the latter. As a matter of fact,Miss Vost was simply a young woman very far from home, compelled tobelieve in and on occasion to resort to primitive methods ofself-defense.
Peter took a rickshaw to the river. He picked out the _Hankow_ amongthe clutter of shipping, anchored not far from shore, and out of reachof the swift current which rushed dangerously down midchannel. Blacksmoke issued from her single chubby funnel. Blue-coated coolies spedto and fro on her single narrow deck. Bobbie MacLaurin leaned far outacross the rail as Peter's sampan slapped smartly alongside. Thecoolie thrashed the water into yellowy foam.
"Have you seen Miss Vost?" shouted MacLaurin above the hiss of escapingsteam. "We pull out in an hour, Miss Vost or no Miss Vost. That'sorders."
Peter, reaching the deck, scanned the pagoda-dotted shore-front."She'll be here," he said.
Pu-Chang, the _Hankow's_ pilot, a slender, grayed Chinese, grown oldbefore his time, in the river service, sidled between them, smilingmistily, and asked his captain if the new tow-line had been delivered.While MacLaurin went to make inquiries, Peter watched a sampan, bow on,floating down-stream, with the intention, evidently, of makingconnections with the _Hankow's_ ladder. On her abrupt foredeck was aslim figure of blue and white.
Startled a little by recollection, Peter leaned far out. For a momenthe had imagined the white face to be that of Eileen Lorimer. Thedemure attitude of Miss Vost's hands, caught by the finger-tips beforeher, gave further grounds to Peter Moore for the comparison. Her youthand innocence had as much to do with it as anything, for there wasundeniably an air of youth and extreme innocence about Miss Vost.
Something in the shape of a triumphant bellow was roared from theengine-room companionway. Whereupon the companionway disgorged themonumental figure of Bobbie MacLaurin, grinning like a schoolboy at hisfirst party. He seized Miss Vost by both hands, swinging her neatly tothe deck.
She panted and fell back against the rail, holding her hand to herheart, and welcoming Bobbie MacLaurin by a glance that was not entirelycordial.
"The sampan boy hasn't been paid," she remarked, opening her purse."It's twenty cents."
While MacLaurin pulled a silver dollar from his pocket and spun it tothe anxious coolie, Miss Vost turned with the warmest of smiles toPeter. Rarely had any girl seemed more delighted to see him, forwhich, under the circumstances, he found it somewhat difficult to begrateful.
He experienced again that dull feeling of guilt. He felt that sheought to show more cordiality to Bobbie MacLaurin. Here was Bobbie,trailing after her like a faithful dog, on the most hazardous trip thatany man could devise, and he had not been rewarded, so far, with eventhe stingiest of smiles.
Women were like that. They took the fruits of your work
, or they tookyour life, or let you toss it to the crows, without a sign ofgratitude. At least, _some_ women were like that. He had hoped MissVost was not that kind. He had hoped----
Miss Vost laid her small, warm hand in his, and she seemed perfectlywilling to let it linger. Her lips were parted in a smile that was allbut a caress. She seemed to have forgotten that the baffled young manwho stared so fixedly at the back of her pretty, white neck existed.
It was quite embarrassing for Peter. The feeling of the little hand,that lay so intimately within his, sent a warm glow stealing into hisguilty heart.
Then, aware of the pain in the face of Bobbie MacLaurin, a face thathad abruptly gone white, and realizing his duty to this true friend ofhis, he pushed Miss Vost's hands away from him.
That gesture served to bring them all back to earth.
"Aren't you glad--aren't you a little bit glad--to see me--me?" saidthe hurt voice of Bobbie MacLaurin.
Miss Vost pivoted gracefully, giving Peter Moore a view of hersplendid, straight back for a change. "Of course I am, Bobbie!" sheexclaimed. "I'm always glad to see you. Why--oh, look! Did you eversee such a Chinaman?"
They all joined in her look. A salmon-colored sampan was ridingswiftly to the _Hankow's_ riveted steel side. With long legs spreadwide apart atop the low cabin stood a very tall, very grave Chinese.His long, blanched face was more than grave, more than austere.
Peter Moore stared and ransacked his memory. He had seen that face,that grimace, before. His mind went back to the shop front, on NankingRoad, last evening, when he was skulking toward the bund from thefriendly establishment of his friend, the silk merchant, Ching Gow Ong.
This man was neither Cantonese nor Pekingese. His long, rathersupercilious face, his aquiline nose, the flare of his nostrils, theback-tilted head, the high, narrow brow, and the shock of blue-blackhair identified the Chinese stranger, even if his abnormal, rangyheight were not taken into consideration, as a hill man, perhapsTibetan, perhaps Mongolian. Certainly he was no river-man.
It seemed improbable that the window-breaker could have been releasedby the heartless Shanghai police so quickly; yet out of his ownadventurous past Peter could recall more than one occasion when"squeeze" had saved him embarrassment.
There was no constraint in the pose of the man on the sampan's flatroof. With indifference his narrow gaze flitted from the face ofBobbie MacLaurin to that of Miss Vost, and wandered on to the stern,sharp-eyed visage of Peter Moore.
Here the casual gaze rested. If he recognized Peter Moore, he gave noindication of it. He studied Peter's countenance with the look of onewhose interest may be distracted on the slightest provocation.
An intelligent and wary student of human nature, Peter dropped his eyesto the man's long, claw-like fingers. These were twitching ever soslightly, plucking slowly--it may have been meditatively--at the hem ofhis black silk coat. At the intentness of Peter's stare, thistwitching abruptly ceased.
The sampan whacked alongside. The big man tossed a small, orange-silkbag to the deck. He climbed the ladder as if he had been used toclimbing all his life.
"I don't care for his looks," remarked Miss Vost, looking up intoPeter's face with a curious smile.
"Nor I," said Bobbie MacLaurin.
The richly dressed stranger vaulted nimbly over the teak-rail,recovered the orange bag, and approached MacLaurin. His head droopedforward momentarily, in recognition of the authority of the blueuniform.
He said in excellent English: "I desire to engage passage to Ching-Fu."
"This way," replied the _Hankow's_ captain.
"You seemed to recognize him," said Miss Vost to Peter, when they hadthe deck to themselves.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," replied Peter evasively. He suddenly wasaware of Miss Vost's wide-eyed look of concern.
Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She had come up very closeto him. Her head moved back, so that her chin was almost on a levelwith his.
"Mr. Moore," she said in a low, soft voice, "I won't ask you anyquestions. In China, there are many, many things that a woman must nottry to understand. But I--I want to tell you that--that I think youare--splendid. It seems so fine, so good of you. I--I can't begin tothank you. My--my feelings prevent it."
"But--why--what--what----" stammered Peter.
"Oh, Mr. Moore, I know--I know!" Miss Vost proceeded earnestly. "Likeall fine, brave men, you are--you are modest! It--it almost makes mewant to cry, to think--to think----"
"But, Miss Vost," interrupted Peter, gently and gravely, "you areshooting over my head!"
In the rakish bows of the _Hankow_ arose the clank and clatter of wetanchor-chains. A bell tinkled in the engine-room. The stout fabric ofthe little steamer shuddered. The yellow water began to slip by them.On the shore two pagodas moved slowly into alignment. The _Hankow_ wasmoving.
Miss Vost strengthened her gentle hold upon Peter's reluctant arm. Herbright eyes were a trifle blurred. "Last night, when we met on thebund," she went on in a small voice, "I knewimmediately--immediately--what you were. A chivalrous gentleman! Aman who would shelter and protect any helpless woman he met!"
"That was nice of you," murmured Peter.
Like Saul of Tarsus, he was beginning to see a bright light.
"And it was true!" Miss Vost plunged on. "Now--now, you are riskingyour life--for poor, unworthy little me! Please don't deny it, Mr.Moore! I only wanted to let you know that I--I understand, and that Iam--g-grateful!" Her eyelids fluttered over an unstifled moistness.
"Bobbie _loves_ you," blurted Peter. "He'd do anything in the worldfor you. He told me so. He told me----"
Miss Vost opened her eyes on a look that was hurt and humiliated."What?"
"He'd go to hell for you!"
"He's an overgrown boy. He doesn't know what he says. That'snonsense," declared Miss Vost, looking away from Peter. "I know histype, Mr. Moore. He falls in love with every pretty face; and he fallsout again, quite as easily."
"You don't know Bobbie, the way I do," said Peter stubbornly.
"I don't have to. I know his kind--a girl in every port."
"No, no. Not Bobbie!"
For a moment it seemed that they had come to an _impasse_. Miss Vostwas blinking her eyes rapidly, appearing to be somewhat interested in ajunk which was poling down-stream.
She looked up with a wan smile. Tears were again in her eyes. "Mr.Moore," she said in a broken voice, "what you've told me about Mr.MacLaurin, Captain MacLaurin, moves me--deeply!"
"Do try to be nice to Bobbie," begged Peter. "He is the finest fellowI know. He is true blue. He would give his life for your littlefinger. Really he would, Miss Vost!"
The bright eyes gave him a languishing look.
"I'll try," she said simply.
That night the banks of the great river were gray and mysterious underthe effulgence of a top-heavy yellow moon. The search-light on thepeak pierced out the fact that a low, swirling mist was creeping upfrom the river's dulled surface.
The air was damp with the breath of the land. Occasionally the gentlepuffs of the wind bore along the water the flavor of queer,indistinguishable odors.
Elbow to elbow, glancing down at the hissing water, Miss Vost and Peterstood for a number of sweet, meditative moments in silence. At lengthMiss Vost slipped her arm through his.
"Sometimes," she murmured, inclining her head until it almost restedagainst his shoulder, "I feel lonely--terrible! Especially on such anight as this. The moon is so impersonal, isn't it? Here it is, agreat, gorgeous ball of cold fire, shining across China at you and me.In Amoy it seemed to frown at me. Now--it seems to smile. The samemoon!"
"The same moon!" whispered Peter as her warm hand slipped down andsnuggled in his.
"Don't _you_ ever feel lonely--like this?" demanded Miss Vost suddenly.
Peter sighed. "Oh, often. Often! The world seems so big, and sofilled with things that are hard to learn. Especially at night!" Hewondered
what she thought he meant.
"I--I feel that way," Miss Vost's absorbed voice replied. "I try--andtry--to reason these things out. But they are so baffling! Soelusive! So evasive! Here is China, with its millions of poorwretched ones, struggling in darkness and disease. There are so many!And they are so hard to help. And out beyond there, not so many milesbeyond that ridge, lies Tibet, with her millions, and her ignorance,and her disease. And to the left--away to the left, I think, is India.
"If a person would be happy, he must not come to China or India. Theirproblems are too overwhelming. You cannot think of solutions fastenough, and even while you think, you are overcome by the weariness,the hopelessness, of it all. I wish I had never come to China.
"I happened to be in Foo-Chow not long ago. There is in Foo-Chow athing that illustrates what I mean. It is called the baby tower.Girls, you know, aren't thought much of in China. At the bottom of thetower is a deep well. Women to whom are born baby girls go to the babytower----" Miss Vost shuddered. "The babies are thrown into the well.I have seen them. Poor--poor, little creatures--dying like that!"
Miss Vost sniffled for a moment. Brightly she said:
"I like to talk to you, Mr. Moore. You're so--so sympathetic!"
A great, dark shadow bulked up against the rail alongside Peter.
"Good evening, folks!" declared the pleasant bass voice of BobbieMacLaurin.
"We were just talking about you, Bobbie," said Peter affably. "As Iwas telling Miss Vost, you're the most sympathetic man I ever knew!Good night, Miss Vost. Night, Bobs!"
Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China Page 12
