Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  At last, as I looked around for more survivors, someone hailed me from the wreck of the Karamata Maru and I bade my men row swiftly to her side. Already the great liner rode so low that the little group awaiting me was almost on a level with my head, and I realized that I was in a dangerous position in case she sank. The freighter also was filling rapidly.

  First those on the Karamata Maru lowered an injured man into the gig, and two attendants — one the ship’s doctor, I afterward learned — came with him.

  “Hurry, gentlemen,” I called to the others; but they shook their heads and retreated from the side.

  “It’s no use, sir,” growled the doctor. “They’re ship’s officers and won’t leave their charge. Cast off, for God’s sake, or we’ll follow her to the bottom when she sinks!”

  I obeyed, seized with a sudden panic at the warning words, and my men rowed lustily from the dangerous neighborhood of the wreck.

  We reached the side of the Seagull just as Ned had assisted the last of his rescued passengers up the ladder, and I made haste to get my own aboard. The injured man had fainted. I noticed that he was a Chinaman, although dressed in European costume, and that he was an object of great solicitude on the part of his attendant and the doctor. We put him in a sling and hoisted him up the side, and after the others had followed and I was preparing to mount the ladder myself a mighty shout from our deck arrested my attention. I turned quickly, just in time to see the awful climax to this disaster. The derelict and the liner sank together, and the sea gave a great gasp and closed over them, whirling and seething about the spot as if a thousand sea-monsters were disporting themselves there. The suction was so great that had we not already caught the davit, falls the gig would have assuredly been drawn into the whirlpool, while the ship to which I clung trembled in every beam, as if with horror at the sight she had witnessed.

  CHAPTER TWO

  PRINCE KAI LUN PU

  When I gained the deck of the Seagull an affecting sight met my eyes. It was crowded thick with despairing and agitated men and women, for all had lost their possessions and many their friends and relatives within the preceding half hour. Bry had brewed huge pots of coffee, for the morning air was still chilly and the rescued ones had nearly all been pulled from the water; so, our hearts full of pity for the poor wretches, we tried to comfort and cheer them as well as lay within our power.

  The collision happened at twenty minutes after five in the morning; by six o’clock all the rescued were on the deck of the Seagull. We found we picked up two hundred and eighteen out of the three hundred and twenty-seven who had constituted the passengers and crew of the ill-fated Karamata Maru. One hundred and nine, including the Japanese officers, who deliberately went down with their ship, had perished.

  It was nine o’clock before the steamship Nagasaki Maru hove in sight, and eleven when she came alongside us. I make this positive statement despite the inaccurate newspaper reports to the effect that the Nagasaki Maru was at the scene of the collision and assisted the Seagull to rescue the survivors.

  Of course the Nagasaki Maru, belonging to the same line as the lost Karamata Maru, promptly transferred all the rescued ones to her own decks; and that was just as well, because our ship was too small to carry them all in comfort, and we were really under no obligations to do more than we had already done. The Karamata Maru had been bound for Japan, so the Nagasaki Maru, being on her way to San Francisco, undertook to leave the passengers and crew of her sister ship at Honolulu until they could be picked up by some other west-bound ship.

  As they steamed away from us the poor survivors who swarmed upon her decks saluted us with a hearty cheer of gratitude for our services, and this appreciation fully repaid us.

  As I stood leaning over the rail and watching the fast receding Nagasaki Maru, Joe touched my elbow.

  “Lunch is ready, Sam.”

  Then I remembered that I had eaten nothing except a cup of Bryonia’s coffee since early morning, and I quickly went below. Already we had steamed away upon our course and the midday sun was shining brightly overhead.

  I found all our ship’s officers assembled in the saloon except the second mate, old Eli Trent, who had the deck watch, and during the meal we naturally discoursed at length upon the exciting events of the morning.

  I had nearly finished luncheon when our steward, Nux, whispered over my shoulder:

  “Chinaman wants to see you, Marse Sam.”

  “What Chinaman, Nux?” I asked in surprise.

  “Hurt man, Marse Sam. He in front stateroom.”

  I looked inquiringly at my father.

  “We’ve took a passenger, Sam,” said the Captain, calmly buttering his toast. “The Chinaman you took off’n the wreck is a high mandarin, a prince, or suthin’, and wanted to get home to China as soon as possible, fer he’s hurt bad.”

  “We don’t usually accept passengers,” I remarked thoughtfully, “but if this poor fellow is injured and homesick, it’s our duty to do what we can for him.”

  “And that isn’t much,” added a gruff voice behind me, and the ship’s doctor from the Karamata Maru dropped into a seat at the table and began to eat. We watched him a moment in silence. Then I asked:

  “Is your patient very bad, Doctor — ”

  “Gaylord; my name’s Gaylord. I’m an Englishman, although I sailed on that blasted Jap ship. And my patient, Prince Kai, is dying. He’ll never see China again.”

  “Oh!” I exclaimed, really distressed, and the others echoed my sympathy.

  “He got jammed between the timbers,” explained Dr. Gaylord, as he continued his luncheon, “and although three of his attendants threw themselves around him and met their own death in trying to shield him, the Prince was badly smashed and can’t possibly live more than a day or two. It’s a shame,” he added, shaking his grizzled head, “for Kai Lun Pu has just been made one of the five Viceroys of the Empire, and he’s a fine young fellow who had a promising future. The redemption of China, gentlemen, must come through these young scions of the nobility who are being educated at the colleges of England and America. They’ll imbibe modern, progressive ideas, and in time upset the old prejudices of the Flowery Kingdom altogether.”

  He turned and cast at me a scrutinizing gaze. “You’re the young man who brought us off the wreck, I think?”

  I nodded.

  “The Prince has asked for you twice. Perhaps you’d better go to him now. I’ve given him a hypodermic and he feels easier.”

  “Why does he wish to see me?” I asked curiously.

  “Some fool notion of gratitude, I suppose. These educated Chinese are very courteous and punctilious fellows. It’s likely he wouldn’t die comfortably if he had neglected to thank you for your slight services.”

  “Shall I go in alone?” I asked hesitatingly.

  “Yes; walk right in. The Death’s-Head is with him,” added the doctor with a snort of contempt that I did not understand.

  So I softly turned the handle of the stateroom door and walked in. It was not a pleasant errand to visit a dying man, and I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

  The state cabin of the Seagull was a roomy — almost spacious — apartment, and we had fitted it up carefully for the use of any important guest we might have aboard. It had never been used but once before, and as I glanced around it I felt a pang that it was now to be the scene of a death, and that a miserable Chinaman should put this blemish upon it.

  Seated upon a stool beside the curtained bunk was the Chinese attendant I had brought aboard with the Prince and the doctor. Immediately I understood Dr. Gaylord’s expression, “the Death’s-Head,” for this Chinaman typified that mythical horror in feature and expression. Perhaps I should say lack of expression, for his face was as immobile as Death itself, of a pallid gray-green color, and the skin was drawn tight as parchment over his high cheek-bones and across his thin lips. The eyes were dark and bright, but conveyed no more animation or intelligence than would glass eyes. He was dressed
rather primly in a suit of black broadcloth, cut in London fashion.

  As I entered, this attendant rose like an automaton and drew the curtains of the bunk, muttering a brief sentence in Chinese.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SMILING AT DEATH

  I advanced with a respectful bow and found myself looking squarely into the eyes of the injured man. Then I gave a start of surprise, for a young man — almost a boy, he seemed — was smiling at me from the pillows as cheerily as if greeting an old friend who had come to take part in a jubilation.

  In my recollections of him I have never thought of Prince Kai Lun Pu as a Chinaman. His features bore certain characteristics of his race, assuredly; but he was so thoroughly Europeanized, so cultured, frank and agreeable in demeanor, that no one could possibly think of him otherwise than as a royal good fellow whom it was a privilege to know. With his poor maimed body covered by the counterpane, the pleasant — almost merry — expression of his boyish face made one doubt that he had been injured at all, and I thought he looked as little like a dying man as anyone could.

  “You are young Mr. Steele,” said he in perfect English, “and I am well pleased to see you, sir; for you have rendered me a rare service and have earned my lasting gratitude.”

  “It was a simple duty,” I responded, with an answering smile; “but I am glad I was able to serve so important a personage, Prince.”

  “Important?” said he, arching his eyebrows; “ah, perhaps you might find me so, were we together in my own province of Kwang-Kai-Nong.” A shadow passed over his face, and he sighed; but next moment, with renewed cheerfulness, he added, “but we are not in China, Mr. Steele, and aboard your noble ship the humble passenger must defer to your own more powerful individuality.” He cast an amused glance at the Death’s-Head and said:

  “Defer, Mai Lo, to the noble American; defer for us both, since I am helpless!”

  The attendant, outwardly unmoved and unresponsive, prostrated himself before me, and then resumed his former position. I could not resist a light laugh at the ridiculousness of the performance, and the Prince joined in the merriment. Then, suddenly recollecting myself, I became grave and asked:

  “Are you suffering, Prince? Do you think you are badly hurt?”

  The bright eyes regarded me intently for an instant, after which he turned to the Death’s-Head.

  “Leave me, Mai Lo; I would converse with my host,” said he.

  The attendant again prostrated himself, this time to his Prince, and retired without a word of protest. But almost immediately the Doctor came hurrying in, and there was protest in both his words and demeanor.

  “Look you, Prince Kai,” he said, “this is no time for reckless folly. I gave you morphine to quiet your pain and enable you to sleep, and you positively must not excite yourself and neutralize the effect of the medicine.”

  The young man gave him a look half whimsical, half sympathetic.

  “My dear Gaylord,” said he, “you have, in your wisdom, numbered the hours remaining to me, and I accept the decree as final. But why should I sleep during those brief hours, when rest eternal will soon be mine?”

  The Doctor flushed and cast down his eyes. He was a good-hearted man, and not yet calloused in the presence of death. The Prince smiled upon him in kindly fashion and asked:

  “Is there an ample supply of morphine?”

  “There is ample, my Prince.”

  “Then listen to my wish. I do not care to sleep, nor do I want to suffer in the brief time you have allotted me. Let me secure all the pleasure I am able to until the Earth Dragon completes his vengeance upon me. That will be kind, dear Doctor, and your reward shall be provided for.”

  The old surgeon took the Chinaman’s hand and pressed it warmly.

  “Never mind the reward, my Prince,” said he. “I’m out of a job just now, and am glad to experiment upon you, so I shan’t get rusty. Your wish shall be respected.”

  “Then leave me with Mr. Steele awhile,” was the reply, “and see that Mai Lo doesn’t disturb us.”

  The Doctor bowed with deference and withdrew.

  “Prince,” said I, “they call me Sam aboard this ship, and I’ll be glad to have you do the same. I’m not much used to a handle to my name, and if we’re to be friends — ”

  “We’re to be friends, Sam,” he rejoined, quickly; “so just squat upon that stool and let us have a good chat together.”

  I was really charmed with my new acquaintance, he was so animated, so frank in admitting me to his friendship and so evidently grateful to me for the slight service I had rendered him. His brightness made me forget the pitiful fact that he had but a short time to live, until he himself reminded me of it.

  I can imagine no more delightful a companion than Prince Kai Lun Pu must have been before his terrible accident. He began by telling me much of his history, in a whimsical, half facetious way that deprived the relation of any affectation or egotism.

  A prince of the royal blood and related to the reigning Manchu family, Kai had been early singled out for an important position in the empire and sent to England to be educated. He had graduated from Oxford a year before, and after a brief visit to his own country, where he held a long consultation with the Emperor and that terrible old woman, Tsi An, the Dowager Empress, he had toured Europe, Egypt and India, and afterward visited the principal cities of the United States. This had enabled him to study other nations and to note their manners and customs, and he was returning to China as a Viceroy and a member of the Imperial Cabinet, to which post he had already been appointed, when he met with the terrible accident which was to cut short his brilliant career.

  So much this royal prince confided to me in our first interview; but he cared less to talk of himself than to be amused, and soon he began to question me as to my own history and adventures.

  Being willing to amuse the poor fellow, and having no duties that required my attention, I passed the afternoon in relating the adventures of my brief life. These seemed to astonish him greatly, and he questioned me closely in regard to Alaska and Panama, where I had voyaged with my father and Uncle Naboth, but which he had never visited. I also told him some queer adventures of mine in Egypt, but he was more familiar with that country.

  I feared to weary the young Prince with my long stories, but he would not let me go. Twice during the afternoon Dr. Gaylord came in and administered to his patient hypodermic injections of morphine, and these must have kept him free from pain, for he made no complaints and retained his bright cheerfulness until I finally insisted on leaving him.

  Outside his door was the unemotional Mai Lo, standing as stiffly as a statue. The attendant saluted me with great respect and immediately entered his master’s room.

  Dr. Gaylord was in the saloon smoking a cigar, and he nodded as I approached and said:

  “Queer fellow, Prince Kai, isn’t he?”

  “A very charming fellow, I think, Doctor.”

  “Yes; and richer than Rothschild — or your Rockefeller,” he added. “You should have seen him arrayed in his native costume on board the Karamata Maru, and surrounded by his four devoted followers. He was a picture, I assure you, and dignified and gracious enough to warrant his royal blood. Everyone liked him, heathen though he is.”

  “Heathen!” I echoed, surprised.

  Of course he’s a heathen. But I admit he makes you forget that, for in London and at Oxford he acquired the polish of an English gentleman. It was only when I noted the rascals surrounding him that I realized he was a Chinaman.”

  “But they were faithful,” I suggested.

  “To the death,” said he, with a slight shudder. “They even tried to oppose their frail bodies between him and the ship’s splintering timbers. Sir, it would have made you cringe to see their mangled remains — as I did. But the sacrifice did no good at all.”

  “You are sure he will die?” I asked.

  “I am positive. Surgical skill can do nothing to save him. If only old Death’s-Head had
perished with him,” he added, with a glance toward the state cabin, “I should feel more reconciled. But Mai Lo happened to be in a safe place, and escaped.”

  “Is he old?” I asked musingly.

  “You never can tell a Chinaman’s age from his looks,” said the Doctor. “Yet I would wager that Mai Lo is sixty, if he’s a day. I’m told that at home he’s the governor of Prince Kai’s native province, and a person of consequence.”

  “I don’t like him,” said I, frankly.

  “No one likes him, not even his young master,” returned the Doctor. “By the way, how old should you judge Kai Lun Pu to be?”

  “Perhaps the Prince is eighteen — or nineteen,” I hazarded.

  “He is seven-and-twenty. These Chinese seem to age very slowly, unless they’re addicted to opium, like the coolies. Have a cigar, sir?”

  I shook my head and went on deck, where Archie and Joe at once collared me with a demand to know what “His Royal Muchness, the Chinaman” had been talking about all the afternoon. I was quite full of the subject and told them as much as I knew about our injured passenger, adding that I was sincerely sorry the poor fellow must die.

  CHAPTER FOUR