Peter the Brazen: A Mystery Story of Modern China

by George F. Worts

  CHAPTER XV

  They came to Ichang next noon. Peter was on deck watching the somewhathazardous procedure of transferring large grass-bound cases of toolsfrom a tidewater steamer to the stern of the flat when he saw theMongolian emerge from the companionway and walk to the rail, forward.Peter gave him a full stare, but the man did not glance in hisdirection. He was looking down at the muddy river, and beckoning.

  Peter observed a sampan coolie give an answering wave, and the sampansidled alongside the flat.

  The Mongolian returned a few minutes before the _Hankow_ hauled in heranchor. He retired to his stateroom and stayed there until lateafternoon.

  The river above Ichang was swifter, more dangerous, than in its lowercourse. Except for the junks and an occasional sampan, the _Hankow_had the stream to herself. The yellow waters were tinged with red,dancing and sparkling to a fresh breeze under a fair blue sky. Greatblue hills confined the swollen current. This was not the Yangtze ofyesterday. It was a maddened millrace, gorged by the mountain rains.Even the gurgle under the sharp-cut waters seemed to convey a menace.

  Dikes were broken down. The brown waters had flowed out to right andleft, forming quiet lakes where there had been fields of paddy andwheat. The junks from up-river were having a strenuous time of it.Swarms of gibbering coolies manned the long sweeps, striving above allto keep their clumsy craft in safe mid-current.

  They were passing a long row of pyramids, green, brown and red. ButMiss Vost was staring along the deck.

  "The Mongolian!" she muttered. "How he is grinning at you!"

  The Mongolian had come upon them, apparently unintentionally. Hehesitated and paused when Peter looked up. Peter saw no grin upon hislips. They were set in a firm, straight line. His long arms werefolded behind his back, and his eyes were empty of mirth--or malice.They simply expressed nothing. He looked at Peter shortly, and favoredMiss Vost with a long stare.

  Her eyes faltered. Peter stepped forward.

  But the Mongolian bowed, passed them at a slow, meditative walk, andwas lost from their sight behind the cabin's port side.

  The idea took hold of Peter that the stalker had become the killer.There was a telegraph station at Ichang through which ran the frailcopper wires connecting the seventy millions of Szechwan Province withcivilization. Had it been possible for the Mongolian to signal hismaster in Len Yang and receive an answer while the _Hankow_ lay atIchang?

  After dinner, curious and nervous, Peter went below. The light wasburning over the table of weapons in the main cabin.

  The Mongolian's door was slightly ajar, and as Peter descended thestairs, the door closed.

  He waited. His heart thumped, louder than the thump of the laboringengine. He walked to his stateroom, opened the door, kicked thethreshold, and--slammed the door! He hastened to the table, and hidbehind it. Between the table legs he had a splendid view of both doors.

  Holding a kris, point down, in front of him, the Mongolian slipped out,tried the adjacent door-knob and entered Peter's room. When he cameout, he looked perplexed and angry. He slid the dagger into his silkblouse and looked up the stairway, listening.

  His expression of rage passed away; now his look was inscrutable.Stealing across the vestibule, he approached Miss Vost's door, andrapped.

  Peter ran his fingers along the edge of the table until theyencountered the hilt of a cutlass. He waited.

  The Mongolian rapped a little louder. There was no answer. Again heknocked, imperatively. Peter heard Miss Vost's sleepy voice pitched ininquiry. Her door opened an inch or two.

  The Mongolian forced his way inside!

  Miss Vost uttered a short, sharp scream, which was instantly smothered.

  As Peter burst into the room, the Mongolian turned with a snarl,reaching for his silk blouse. Peter clapped his free hand to themuscled shoulder, and dragged him into the corridor.

  Miss Vost, in a long, white nightgown, was framed in the doorway,staring sleepily. Her hand was clutched to her lips. Her hair tumbledabout her bare shoulders in dark, silky clusters.

  Bright steel flashed in the Mongolian's hand. "_Ha-li!_" he muttered.

  Peter braced himself, and thrust straight upward, striking with fury.He drove the sword through the Mongolian's right eye.

  Miss Vost, a slender pillar of white, stared down at the flounderingheap. She seemed to be going mad, with the green light of the electricglittering in her distended eyes.

  Bobbie MacLaurin bounded down the steps.

  "He tried to come into my room," said Miss-Vost. "He tried to comeinto my room!"

  "I know. I know. But it's all right," soothed Peter, panting. "Youmust go back to bed. You must try to sleep." He talked as though shewere a child. "He was a bad man. He had to--to be treated--this way!"

  "You--you look like an Arab. The dark. And that beard. Where isBobbie?"

  "Right here. Right here beside you!"

  "You're not hurt--either of you? You're both all right?"

  "Yes. Yes. _Please_ go to bed!" begged Peter.

  "Please!" implored Bobbie.

  To them there was something unreligious, something terrible, in thenotion of Miss Vost standing in the presence of the grim black heap inthe shadow. Nor were her youth and her innocence intended to be baredbefore the eyes of men in this fashion.

  As if a chill river wind had struck her, she shivered--closed the door.

  The men carried the limp body, which was unaccountably heavy, to thedeck. After a minute there--was a splash. The _Hankow_ had not beenchecked. On the Yangtze formal burial ceremonies are seldom performed.

  Peter went to bed at once. He tried to sleep. He counted therevolutions of the propeller. He added up a stupendous number of sheepgoing through a hole in a stone wall. Every so often the sheep fadedaway, to be replaced by the fearful countenance of the Mongolian, whowas now perhaps ten miles or more downstream.

  After a while the engines were checked, turning at half speed for anumber of revolutions, then ceasing as a bell rang. The only sound wasthe soughing gurgle of the water as it lapped along the steel plates,and the distant drone of the rapids.

  He heard the splash of an anchor, accompanied by the rumble and clankof chains, forward; and a repetition of the sounds aft. Directly underhim, it seemed a loud, prolonged scraping noise took place. The fireswere being drawn.

  The sounds could only mean that the _Hankow_ had reached the journey'send. The trip was over; the _Hankow_ was abreast Ching-Fu. She wouldlie in the current for a few days, before facing about and making fortidewater.

  To-day would see the last of Miss Vost, a termination of thatserio-humorous love affair of theirs, which, on the whole, had been oneof his most delightful experiences. He wondered whether or not shewould ask him to kiss her good-bye. He rather hoped she would.

  On the other hand, he hoped she would do nothing of the kind. Distancewas lending enchantment to Eileen Lorimer. He was sure this was notinfatuation. She was not the first; he had had affairs; oh, numbers ofthem! But they were mere fragments of his adventurous life. They weremilestones, shadowy and vague and very far away now. Dear littlemilestones, each of them!

  Sometime he would go to Eileen, and get down on his knees before her inhumility, and ask her if she could overlook his systematic and hardenedfaults! When would he do this? Frankly, he did not know.

  He dozed off, and it seemed only an instant later when he was awakenedby a harsh cry.

  The port-hole was still dark. Morning was a long way off.

  The cry was repeated, was joined by others, excited and fearful.

  Peter sat up in bed, and was instantly thrown back by a sudden lurch.Next came a dull booming and banging. The stateroom was filled withthe hot, sweet smell of smoking wood, the smell that is caused by thefriction of wood against wood, or wood against steel.

  Another pounding and booming. Some one hammered at the door. Petertried to turn on the electric light. There was no current. He
openedthe door.

  Bobbie, shoeless and collarless, dressed only in pants and shirt,towered over the light of a candle which he held in a hand that shook.

  "A collision! Junk rammed us! Get up quick! Don't know damage. CallMiss Vost! Get on deck! Take care of her! My hands filled with thisdam' boat."

  Peter snatched his clothes, and before he was out of his pajamas the_Hankow_ began to keel over. It slid down, until the port-hole dippedinto the muddy current. Water slopped in and drenched his knees andfeet.

  He yanked open the door, not stopping to lace his shoes, and calledMiss Vost. She had heard the excitement, and was dressing. The floorlurched again, and he was thrown violently against a sharp-edged post.

  Miss Vost's door was flung open, and she stumbled down the slopingfloor, bracing her hands against his chest to catch herself.

  "We're sinking," she said without fear.

  To Peter it was evident that Miss Vost had never been through thecapsizing of a ship before. He fancied he caught a thrill of eager,almost exultant, excitement in her voice. In that vestibule, he knewthey were rats in a water-trap, or soon would be.

  He still felt weak and limp from his fall against the post, and he wastrying hard to regain his strength before they began their perilousascent to the deck.

  Miss Vost misunderstood his hesitancy.

  "I am not afraid, not a bit!" she declared, holding with both hands thefolds of his unbuttoned shirt. "I am never afraid with _you_! When Iam in danger, you--you are always near. It--it seems that you were puthere to--to look after me. But there is no danger--is there?" Sheshook him almost playfully.

  "Cut out your babbling," he snapped. "Get to that stairway!"

  He heard the breath hiss in between her teeth. But she clung to hisarm obediently. They sprawled and slipped in the darkness to thestairs. Clinging to the railing, they reached the deck, which wasinclined so steeply that they clung to the cabin-rail for support.

  In the dark on all sides of them coolies shouted in high-pitchedvoices. Heavy rain was falling, drumming on the deck. The odor ofwood rubbing against steel persisted. They could see nothing. Theworld was dark, and filled with contusion.

  A sharp explosion took place in the bows. Chains screamed through theair and clanged on metal and wood. One of the forward anchor-chainshad parted.

  The deck was tilted again. Bobbie MacLaurin was not in evidence.Peter shouted for him until he was hoarse. Then he left Miss Vost andgroped his way to the starboard davits. The starboard life-boat wasgone!

  Suddenly the rain ceased. A dull red glow smouldered on the easternheaven.

  Miss Vost was praying, praying for courage, for help. She clung tohim, and sobbed. By and by her nerves seemed to steady themselves.

  There was nothing to do but wait for daylight--and pray that thegurgling waters might not rise any higher.

  The glow in the east increased, and permitted them to see the vagueoutlines of a looming shape which seemed to grow out of the bows. Asdawn came, Peter made out the form of a huge junk, which had pinionedand crushed the foredeck rail under her brawny poop.

  Then the remaining anchor-cable snapped like a rotten thread. Dimlythey saw the end of the chain whip upward and crash down. A coolie,paralyzed, stood in its way. The broken end struck him in the face.He screamed and rolled down the deck until he lodged against the rail.

  Bobbie shouted their names, and scrambled and slipped down.

  "We're trying to get up steam. Our only chance. Both forward anchorsgone. We'll swing around with the current and lose this damn junk. Ifthe after anchor holds till steam's up--we're safe!" He sped aft.

  The steamer shuddered, and they felt her swinging as the scatteredshore lights moved from left to right. The junk was acting as a drag.The shore lights became stationary. A gang of coolies with grate barswere trying to pry up the junk's coamings.

  Peter was aware then that Miss Vost's arms were clinging about hisneck, and that she was whimpering softly in his ear.

  Up-river boomed another explosion. The deck seemed to fall from underhis feet. Water splashed up over his toes. In the gold-speckled dawnhe could see the waters foaming and swirling, and rising higher.

  He knew it was suicide to swim the Yangtze rapids, knew the whirlpoolswhich sucked a man down and held him down until his body was torn toshreds. There was no alternative. And the water was now half-way tohis knees. He dragged the unresisting girl to the rail.

  "Can you swim--at all?"

  "A--a little," she chattered.

  "Hold to my collar and swim with one hand. Only try to keep afloat."

  They slipped into the racing current, were seized, and spun around andaround. Above the drone of the waters he heard the roar of awhirlpool, coming rapidly nearer. The firm clutch of Miss Vost's handon his collar was not loosened. Occasionally he heard her gasp andsputter as a wave washed over her face.

  They were swept down. On they went, spinning, snatched from one eddyto another. The roar of the whirlpool receded, became a low growl andmutter.

  Now they could see the churning surface covered with torn bits ofwreckage. A body, bloated and discolored, spun by, and was caught anddragged under, leaving only an indescribable stench.

  After a while the northern shore, a low, brown bank, crept out towardthem, like a long, merciful arm. In another minute Peter's bare feetcame in contact with slimy, yielding mud. They were in shoal water!

  He picked up Miss Vost in his arms, and carried her ashore; and sheclung to him, shivering and moaning. He did not realize untilafterward that she was kissing him over and over again on his wet lipsand cheeks.

  Coolies found them, and carried them to a village, and deposited themin a little red clay compound behind a building of straw. A bonfirewas kindled. The sun came up, a disk that might have been cut out ofred tissue-paper.

  Some time later a tall man came into the clearing with a little groupof coolies who were pointing out the way. A white patriarchal beardextended nearly to his waist.

  He saw Miss Vost and shouted. She leaped up, was enfolded in his arms.

  Peter stared at them a moment with a look that was somewhat dazed. Hepicked himself up, and skulked out of the compound, in the direction ofthe foaming river.

  His mind was not in a normal state just then, or he would not havewanted to cross to Ching-Fu in a sampan. But he did want to cross. Inthe back of his brain foolish words were urging him: "You must get toChing-Fu. You must go on to Len Yang. Hurry! Hurry!"

  He had no money. A box filled with perforated Szechwan coins now layat the bottom of the river in what was left of the _Hankow_.Nevertheless, he hailed a sampan as though his pockets were weighteddown with lumps of purest silver.

  The boat leaked in dozens of places. The paddle, scarred and battered,clung to the stern by means of a rotting leather thong. As Peterlooked and hesitated, a long, imperative cry issued from behind him.Possibly Miss Vost wanted him to return.

  The coolie stipulated his price, and Peter stepped aboard without amurmur, without looking around, either. The crossing was precarious.They skirted the edge of more than one whirl; they were caught andtossed about in waves as large as houses. Peter kept his eye on therotting thong, and marveled because it actually held.

  Deposited on the edge of Ching-Fu's bund, he confessed his poverty, andoffered his shirt in payment. The shirt was of fine golden silk, wovenin the Chinan-Fu mills. For more than a year it had worn like iron,and it had more than an even chance of continuing to do so.

  Peter stripped off the shirt before a mob of squealing children, andthe coolie scrutinized it. He accepted it, and blessed Peter, andPeter's virtuous mother, and called upon his green-eyed gods to makethe days of Peter long and filled with the rice of the land.