Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  They began to run, their soaking clothes and shoes inhibiting them, and raced the two miles to the village, making it, footsore and exhausted, well ahead of the packet. But just as they reached the first of the outlying huts, from behind one of them stepped several young men in their late teens and blocked their path.

  “Shih shen-mo?” asked Coombs in a tight voice when the ringleader stepped forward in the pathway.

  Robbie could not understand a word of the brief conversation, but he recognized the hoodlums from two days earlier and could easily discern from their angry tone that they meant the two Westerners no good.

  “T’a hen ch’un!” called the leader back to his companion, and they all roared with laughter. They approached, confident and cocky, outnumbering the strangers five to two.

  “Please,” pleaded Coombs in Chinese, “we wish no trouble. Let us pass.”

  “You make trouble everywhere, foreign pig!” spat the leader, and in the next instant all his followers spat at Coombs.

  Coombs jumped back, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and tried in vain to wipe his face in the midst of the continued mocking laughter of the Chinese youths.

  “Please, let us pass,” tried Coombs again, his voice taking on a note of desperation as he saw the mail packet pulling up to the dock less than a hundred and fifty yards farther down the path. “We must get to the packet.” Such an admission was a mistake if he hoped for any mercy.

  “They do not carry foreign devils!”

  Coombs was determined, however, and did not want to miss their only chance of a ride back to the mission. The day had already been one of the worst he had faced since coming to China and he was not willing to give in to another setback. He took a firm step forward and attempted to step between the leader of the small gang and one of his companions. But they laid their hands on his shirt and shoved him rudely away. He stumbled backwards, falling into the muddy path.

  “Ha, ha! Wai-chu!” mocked several of the rowdies.

  Robbie had understood nothing of what he had heard to that point, but now he had seen enough. He knew Coombs would continue to take such abuse without fighting back, just as Chang had been expected to do when attacked by his neighbors. But Robbie Taggart didn’t have to take anything. His reserve of self-control had already been taxed to its limit with the previous encounters with these miscreants. Now they had crossed the line and would have to answer to him!

  He took two quick strides toward the leader, who still stood in the center of the group, grabbed his shirt before he had the chance to react and threw him mercilessly back into his companions.

  “See how tough you are, you little cur, with someone who’ll fight back!” shouted Robbie.

  With the help of his friends, the antagonist was back on his feet in an instant, and leaped bodily toward Robbie. But he was soon to learn, even with the help of all four of his friends, that this was no meek and mild missionary they were tangling with. Robbie knew how to handle himself in a street brawl as well as he could handle a ship—whether five to one or ten to one. He blocked the first attack but was immediately jumped upon from behind. A sharp backward thrust of his elbow slowed this attack, and Robbie was able to jump free in time to spin around just as the next was upon him. With his hands free, however, this new assailant was the next instant on the ground unconscious, the imprint of Robbie’s fist on his jaw.

  Robbie spun around again to see the ringleader back on his feet, a look of hatred in his eyes. He came toward Robbie screaming, leaped into the air, and attempted to jab Robbie’s midsection with a punishing kick. Robbie deftly stepped to one side, grabbed the outstretched leg in midair, gave it a sharp twist, and sent the attacker sprawling to the ground on his back. From the corner of his eye Robbie saw that he was no longer alone in the fight. Coombs had joined in prying one of the Chinese youths from Robbie’s neck, giving him a smashing blow to the midsection. Though Coombs had never been in a fight before in his life, his instincts served him well.

  If the Chinese hoodlums had originally thought that sheer numbers would protect them, they had never taken on either Robbie Taggart or a powerfully built young missionary who had been rained on, heckled, and shipwrecked to his limit. After another two minutes, four young Chinese troublemakers lay on the ground, and the fifth was running as fast as he could toward the village, wanting nothing more to do with these wild barbarians.

  “Very good, Coombs!” exclaimed Robbie. “You handle yourself very well in a fight. Thank you for saving my hide!”

  Coombs collapsed on the ground, and Robbie walked over to him, gave him a slap on the back, laughed and sat down beside him. “I haven’t had so much fun since my first day on the Sea Tiger!” said Robbie. “Where’d you ever learn to use your fists like that?”

  “I don’t know,” said Coombs, smiling. “To tell you the truth, it’s the first time I’ve ever found them necessary.”

  “Well, remind me to have you on my side the next time!” laughed Robbie. “What do you say we still try to make that junk?”

  Coombs jumped to his feet. He had almost forgotten. He looked up and saw the boat was still there. The two were soon running toward it as quickly as their bruised, tired, and sore legs would carry them. Even as he went, however, Coombs’ exultation over their victory faded as the full implications of what he had done began to dawn on him. Though their journey was shortened considerably by the decision of the reluctant captain of the mail packet to sell them passage back to Wukiang, and though Robbie remained in boisterously high spirits, Coombs said hardly another word throughout the remainder of the day.

  It was after sunset when the two travelers crossed the bridge and walked with limping gait into the mission compound. Though they had attempted to wash from their faces the more obvious evidence of their row with the young Chinese gang, their bruises, a couple of black eyes, and their torn clothing could not be hidden.

  Predictably, the first person they met was Isaiah Wallace.

  41

  Flight of the Phoenix

  Robbie sat silent, wondering what could come next. The three of them were alone in the front room of the residence. The atmosphere was heavy with reproof.

  “Now tell me exactly what happened, Thomas?” said Wallace, his tone reminiscent of the stern but benevolent schoolmaster.

  Hsi-chen had prepared tea for them and then departed. As he sat there, though Wallace had directed all his attention to Coombs thus far, Robbie could not help but feel like a naughty schoolboy caught by the headmaster in the midst of some mischief. He didn’t like the feeling.

  As Coombs recounted the story of their travels from village to village, and of their being hounded by the small gang of hoodlums, it was clear from his tone that he was making a great effort to be solemn and dutifully humble. When he came to the end, however, the initial exhilaration he had felt during the row could not help from creeping into his tone. He ended his report just short of admitting, “We knocked the tar out of them!” Yet he hardly had to say the words. No matter how he tried to subdue it, the thrill of victory could be discerned in his voice.

  Wallace sat silent a long while once the report was concluded, apparently turning everything over in his analytical mind. In truth, he was trying to decide the best way to proceed, both for the benefit of his protégé’s growth as a Christian, and for the benefit of the ears of the young unbeliever who had unwittingly been caught up in the mission’s affairs. Achieving a successful result on both fronts would be difficult, if not impossible. Yet his chief responsibility had to remain with Coombs, and with the integrity of their mission in China. He would have to speak God’s truth, and pray that somehow it would have a beneficial impact on Mr. Taggart, though he had little doubt it would alienate him initially.

  At length Wallace took a deep breath, looked toward Coombs intently, with eyes which would have, to his daughter, revealed his deep love for the young man, but which to Robbie’s undiscerning spirit seemed cold and critical. When he spoke, it was in his usua
l tone, a tone which Robbie took for one of reproach. He could not feel the pain and compassion that lay beneath the words of the experienced missionary who had given his life for a people Robbie did not yet know, understand, or love.

  “Did you enjoy your experience, Thomas?”

  “Of course not,” the young man answered quickly. “Well, not the harassing that went on. Sharing with the people in the first village was fulfilling, and—”

  “I mean the fight, Thomas.”

  “No, that is . . . I had never been in a fight before, sir. It was rather . . . it made me feel different, unusual.”

  “It made you feel good?”

  “I don’t know . . . it was—well, after them hounding us the day before and keeping us from being able to get out the gospel message, it was . . . Well, they were asking for it, sir! They would not have left us alone otherwise.”

  Wallace was silent, thinking again.

  “What is the gospel message, Thomas?” he said at length.

  “That God is love.”

  “And who does God love?”

  “All men,” answered Coombs a little sheepishly.

  “Do you understand why we are in China, lad?”

  Coombs licked his lips nervously. “Yes, sir . . . to spread the gospel.”

  “That is correct,” said the doctor. “And is it not, as you said, a gospel of love and peace?”

  Coombs nodded.

  “Would our Lord have raised His hand against His oppressors?”

  Coombs shook his head.

  “Did He not say, ‘Love your enemies,’ and ‘Resist not evil: but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also’?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Coombs humbly, then added in one last lame attempt at self-defense, “But they gave us no chance—there were five of them!”

  “There were hundreds who came out against our Lord, Thomas. Do you remember His trial, how He refused to speak a word in His own behalf? Do you remember what He said when Peter drew his sword and tried to defend Him? He would have no earthly defense, no defense that went counter to the gospel of love and peace. He refused to physically defend himself, to the very point of death. And He is our example.”

  Wallace set down his teacup and stood, then walked slowly and deliberately to a window where he gazed out for some time before speaking again. Robbie found himself wondering if he was deliberating on what punishment to mete out to this errant pupil. But when he turned back to the two other men, he wore not the look of an executioner but rather that of a father, a tender look, but also very sad.

  “Dear Thomas,” he said, “did you think your Lord was powerless to protect you even against five enemies? Yes, you taught some hoodlums a lesson. But to whose name did you bring glory—to your Lord’s, who himself was led as a lamb to the slaughter? Had you once remembered to call upon His name, what a mighty work He might have done!”

  Coombs bowed his head contritely. “I never prayed even once, sir. I am sorry.”

  Robbie had listened to the progression of the conversation in silence. But at last he could take no more. How wrong it seemed that Coombs should be made to feel ashamed of his actions! By now Robbie was growing so heated inside that he scarcely noticed the comforting hand Wallace laid on the younger man’s shoulder. And what did it matter if the anticipated punishment did not fall as Robbie had expected? It was enough that poor young Coombs was being made to feel like a villain simply for defending himself, and defending Robbie too, for that matter.

  “Listen here, Dr. Wallace,” Robbie finally said boldly, “you’re being unfair to Coombs. What did you expect him to do, act the part of a coward and leave me to battle those thugs alone?”

  Wallace turned toward Robbie as if only just noticing him. “There are many ways for a man to exhibit his courage, Mr. Taggart.”

  “Well, sitting and praying while another man is beaten to a pulp doesn’t sound like one of them to me,” rejoined Robbie sarcastically.

  Wallace raised an eyebrow and might have been about speak, but it was Coombs who replied instead.

  “Mr. Taggart,” he said, “God could have interceded for both of us if only I would have given Him the chance, if only I would have asked.”

  “And now you feel ashamed for acting like a man!” said Robbie, shaking his head in frustration. “I don’t understand you people!”

  “No, I don’t suppose you do, Mr. Taggart,” said Wallace without rebuke, yet with an intensity Robbie found extremely uncomfortable. “To truly act like a man, as you put it, means to act like the world’s only true man would have acted. And that is with compassion, especially toward those who would do us harm.”

  “That’s just it! You turn everything around with all your religious jargon and make it into nonsense! There is no way I could understand you!”

  “The Apostle Paul makes it clear that without a heart open to the things of the Spirit, there can be no understanding. Jesus himself talked about the mystery of the kingdom of God being hidden from those who did not choose to understand. You see, Mr. Taggart, it is not our words or our attitudes toward things that are in themselves difficult for you to understand. The understanding comes by choice, by opening your heart and mind toward God and the ways of God. Anyone who wants to understand and seeks God’s wisdom, will understand. God promises enlightenment to those who seek Him.”

  “And so, because I don’t understand, I do not have a heart open to God; is that what you’re saying?”

  “Only you can answer that, Mr. Taggart. Only you know how open your heart is.”

  “But it’s clear enough what you think! You’ve considered me an outsider since the day I came, trying to preach your doctrines at me—both of you! Well I don’t understand, and I don’t think I ever will!”

  Robbie stood, and with a finality in his voice which came from the decision that he found himself making only at that very moment, said, “I don’t belong here. That is clear. I don’t know why I waited so long. I think it is best I leave before my welcome wears out completely.”

  “I would hope you might reconsider, Mr. Taggart,” said Wallace. “You are almost part of the family by now.”

  “No, I have to go. I must find a ship and get my life back where it belongs, on the sea. I will leave tonight.”

  “I would not do that. Don’t make a hasty decision. What we have said here in no way should make you feel we think any the less of you.”

  “I thank you for your kindness, but I think it is for the best.”

  “It would be well for you to wait until morning—the roads may not be safe to travel at night.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” Robbie replied, “but I can take care of myself. Goodbye to both of you. I hope it goes well for you.”

  They shook hands, rather stiffly on Robbie’s part; then he left the room. Once outside he lingered a moment in the open yard. He had no belongings to pack. He was free to go at once.

  Yet he hesitated. And he knew very well the reason.

  He did not want to leave without saying goodbye to Hsi-chen. Yet it would be awkward to seek her out. He’d probably in the end have to go back inside and ask Wallace where to find her, and that he could not do. The whole thing would just be too awkward.

  He wandered indecisively toward the camphor tree where they had spent so much time, then ran his hand along the trunk, as if that might somehow symbolize the farewell he could not verbalize.

  She came up quietly behind him, but her unexpected presence did not startle him, perhaps because he had hoped she would miraculously appear out of his thoughts, which were centered on her.

  “My father says you are leaving,” she said quietly.

  “Yes. It’s time I move on.” How much does she know about what happened with Coombs, and the fight? he wondered. Well, it didn’t matter. He would have had to leave the mission sooner or later anyway.

  “I want to give you something,” she said. “Would you please wait a moment?”

 
“You don’t have to do that.”

  “Please . . . only a moment.”

  He nodded in consent.

  She left as quietly as she had come, and was gone about ten minutes. This time he watched her as she returned. Even at a distance she was lovely, her fragile figure framed in the soft moonlight, her sensitive face glowing as if it were the source of the light reflected around her. Something inside him ached at the thought of never seeing her again. But he quickly told himself that, yes, she was pretty, and yes, there had grown to be a certain bond between them. But there were many pretty girls the world over, and it would not do to become attached to one so different from him. It had not worked with Jamie. It would not work with Hsi-chen. But even as the thought surfaced in his consciousness, he knew, if vaguely, that the differences troubling him were not the obvious ones of race, but rather the ones related to her faith, the faith of her father, the faith—as much as he had always thought of himself as a “good and God-fearing man”—he could not understand.

  “I’m sorry it took me so long,” she said when she reached him. “But I thought you might need some provisions for your journey.” She held out a rucksack, which he took with thanks.

  “But I wanted you to have something else,” she went on, “something so that you would remember us here at the mission.”

  “I doubt that I will soon forget—any of you.”

  “Take this small gift anyway. I want you to have it.” She held out a small black New Testament. “It is not an expensive book. But I hope you will find pleasure in it. And meaning, too. And I hope with it you can remember the friendship you had with a humble Chinese girl in Wukiang.”

  “Thank you, Hsi-chen,” Robbie said, not without obvious emotion in his voice. He took the book and stared at it silently for some time before he could speak. “I won’t forget you, Hsi-chen; your friendship is something I will carry with me wherever I go.”

  “Neither will I forget you, Robbie Taggart. But I will remember you not only as Moses, as my father first named you, but also as Feng-huang, the Phoenix.”