Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  Unconsciously his eyes wandered over the compound spread out below him, seeking out Hsi-chen. He did not want to move from his perch. But even as he wrestled with the questions filling his mind, part of him wanted to share the search with her. For somehow he knew that she was wrestling with him—maybe even for him.

  She was helping her father in the clinic. A long line of village folk shuffled about in front of the hospital door, waiting to be seen by the doctor. Occasionally Hsi-chen stepped outside to assess the prospective patients as to the immediacy of their needs. She was there now, speaking to an elderly lady. In a moment she placed her arm around the woman’s bent and crippled back and gently led her inside out of the heat.

  The simple act sent a rush of emotion through Robbie. He shed no tears, but a peculiar tightness gripped his chest. He knew just what her voice would sound like to the old woman. The soft, high-pitched, musical tone, speaking so tenderly, as if to a child. What a mother she would make! The small gesture made by sweet Hsi-chen toward a frail old woman gave him a further glimpse of godly compassion. Yet with it came still another question: he too had always tried to be a good, compassionate man. So had many others. That did not make them Christians as Wallace or Hsi-chen would describe that belief. What was the difference between being good and believing? Certainly God’s people did not have exclusive interest on being good. And furthermore, what about so-called Christians who weren’t as compassionate as nonbelievers?

  Two hours later, when he had come back down to the ground to cut more shingles, Hsi-chen approached Robbie from the hospital. All the patients for the day had finally been attended to. She wore the same easy warmth that he had grown accustomed to, and he returned her smile.

  “You work hard, Robbie the sailor,” she said.

  “I never minded a bit of work,” he replied. “It helps keep the head clear, if nothing else.”

  “And your head needs clearing?”

  He laughed outright. “Need you ask? Never before in my life has my head been in such a muddled mess!” He paused. “But it’s starting to clear a muckle wee bit, as we say in Scotland. Or so I think, just before some new dilemma comes over me.”

  “I am glad.”

  “But I do have a question for you.”

  “Let us sit again in the shade of the camphor tree,” she said. He rose and followed her. “Now,” she said at length, “ask what you will. But I may not be worthy to answer.”

  “Tell me, if compassion is a trait that comes from God, how can an unbeliever exhibit that virtue? I’ve known many good men who were not believers.”

  “That is a large question,” replied Hsi-chen slowly, pausing in thought. “There is no simple answer,” she went on after a minute or two, “but consider perhaps a story like one Jesus told. When seed is scattered upon the earth, some of it falls into the furrow that has been prepared for it. But some is carried off by the wind and falls on a field for which it was not intended. But there it grows, as all seeds must. When it grows and matures, it can yield good fruit. But just think how much more splendid it would have been had its soil received all the proper care!”

  “Do you mean that Christians are more compassionate than unbelievers?”

  “That is not exactly what I mean, for unfortunately it is not always so. But if the seed were getting its nourishment from the very fountain of love, would it not flourish all the more? It is true there are some believers who have not tapped into this fountain, and some also who are trying but must give more time for their fruit to show. All love is but a shadow of God’s character. There is no other answer I can think of for your question. All men are made in the image of their Maker, whether they know it or acknowledge it or not. And in all men, the love of that Maker cannot help but spill out from time to time, whether or not they are planted in the furrow He intended for them.”

  “It must be a pretty powerful love to touch even those who don’t know Him,” mused Robbie. “A woman once said to me, ‘Even a sailor can be used of God.’”

  “It is true,” replied Hsi-chen, smiling. Sobering somewhat, she added, “It is powerful, Robbie, for how do you think unbelievers come to Him and become believers? They are touched by the love of God, a love that shows itself to men and women in millions of different ways. It is the only way to meet Him. I have seen many worthy Chinese intellectuals try to reason their way to a state of higher consciousness. But if they are to continue their quest where it is meant to lead, in the end it must come to the point of discovering His love personally in each of their hearts.”

  “Why does He love us as He does?”

  “He is God, that is all. He made us. He created us to be like Him, to enjoy relationship and fellowship with Him. It is His nature to love.”

  Robbie did not reply. Another moment he sat, then jumped up and began pacing about, agitated once more.

  “I think perhaps I said something to confuse you,” said Hsi-chen.

  “It’s all still so hard to understand.”

  “Do you have the New Testament I gave you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Perhaps if you read there, it might help you,” she suggested. “It is sometimes difficult for me to put into words what in my heart cries out to be said.”

  “Oh no, Hsi-chen, that’s not so!” Robbie exclaimed, coming near to her once more and dropping down beside her. “You’ve expressed it beautifully! But even if you hadn’t spoken a thing, I would have been able to see all you’ve said in the way you act, the way you were just now with the people from the village, and so many other times. Who you are speaks louder than anything you’ve said!”

  “That is the finest thing anyone has ever told me, Robbie.”

  “I mean it, Hsi-chen. To me you’re a wonderful person!”

  The words slipped out unchecked in his exuberance, and the moment they did they seemed to hang in the air. Robbie could not grab them back even if he had wanted to.

  He took her hands in his. “You are wonderful,” he repeated the words, this time softly, but with even greater fervor. But he saw unexpected tears rising in her eyes.

  “What is it, Hsi-chen?” he asked gently.

  “Think nothing of my emotion,” she answered. “I do not know what it means.” She slipped her hands from his and stood. “I must go now.”

  He watched her walk away. She moved not with her usual fluid grace, but now with uncertainty, despite her hurried pace. Robbie knew he had said more than he should have, more than he had planned to. But the words had come so naturally.

  He, too, did not know what any of it meant. Was it possible that here, in this strange and foreign land, he could be falling in love—and with someone so intrinsically different from him in every way? He did not want to consider it.

  Yet there were feelings within him he could not deny. Just as there were truths regarding Hsi-chen’s God he could no longer deny either.

  48

  Evil Schemes

  Nestled in the hills surrounding the valley where Wukiang lay, sat an ancient abandoned monastery. Over a century earlier, Taoist monks had lived out their secluded, priestly lives within its stone walls. But when a plague swept through the place more than half the residents had been killed. The remainder of the order soon disbanded, and since that time none dared inhabit the picturesque spot where it was generally believed “bad Karma” dwelt.

  But for the past week and a half this once holy site had been occupied again, this time by an evil breed of men who scoffed at spirituality of any kind. Wang’s handful of soldiers, using it as a barracks while performing their surveillance of the mission only a few miles away, were not intimidated by the ghost stories that had long been associated with the place. The day before Wang K’ung-wu himself had arrived, with his lieutenant Pien, and a very much degenerated Benjamin Pike.

  If the sea captain had ever possessed any redeeming qualities, surely they were wiped away with his act of betrayal. When he had watched his dear Sea Tiger sink and his crew struggling futilely
in the water, he might have experienced a small twinge of remorse, especially as he saw Robbie swallowed up by a seemingly fatal comber. But Pike was a survivor of the worst kind. He kept telling himself that the ship was doomed with or without him. He did not exactly betray his crewmen. The pirates were going to do what they were going to do regardless. He might as well save himself if he could. It would make no difference to the others, and as far as Robbie was concerned, hadn’t he hoped for just such an accident all along?

  Pike could not live with guilt. He had no use for it. Yet he had to live, to survive, at all costs. So he squashed out that last remnant of humanity left within his sick and twisted mind. He forced from his brain the memory of his men going down with the ship. It would do no good to remember now. All life for him had to be focused on one goal—Benjamin Pike. First he had had to concentrate his efforts merely on staying alive. But as his position in his new surroundings became firmer, he began to think how he might get the better of these dirty foreigners.

  He had been very fortunate when the pirate Chou brought him before Wang. For all Pike knew he might lose his head. But his bluff on Chou had worked, for it turned out that the warlord hated the pirate’s cocky arrogance even more than Pike’s pitiful countenance. Moreover, he could see some usefulness in having a white barbarian, hated though they were, in his counsel.

  It had been with profound shock that Pike had learned that Robbie Taggart was still alive.

  “He’s a bloody wraith!” screamed the old captain. “Ye can’t kill the blag’ard!”

  He pounded his fist against the table and then tore at his greasy, matted hair like a madman, suddenly bent on a new goal other than staying alive—destroying Robbie Taggart, who all his life had given him no peace.

  But that had been a week ago, and he had kept his thoughts to himself. Now he sat in close council with Wang and Pien. Why Wang included him was a mystery Pike never bothered to consider in-depth. Vaunted with self-importance, Pike did not stop to consider that in reality he was still but a prisoner, ever at the mercy of Wang’s twisted will and violent temper.

  At the moment Pien was in the midst of a report gleaned recently by Wukiang’s spies.

  “There have been no signs of gunboats, my lord,” said Pien in his ingratiating though cautious manner, speaking in Chinese, “nor of any other British presence. Wallace did travel to Hangchow a few days ago.”

  “Speak in English!” ordered Wang, “so our esteemed guest can understand.” He cast a deprecating look in Pike’s direction that contradicted his verbal compliment.

  “And why did those fools I so freely call soldiers not prevent him?” shouted Wang, shifting uncomfortably on the hard monastic floor, inwardly cursing those monks for their simple and stoic ways.

  “It was believed you would not want an incident with a British subject.”

  Slowly Wang shook his head. Someday he would rid himself of the whole pack of fools, and get rid of the British from his territory too! But the time had not come yet. In the meantime he’d have to show caution.

  “And the girl . . . what is her name?” asked Wang.

  “Hsi-chen, my lord.”

  “Is she legally adopted by this missionary?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “How can you be certain?”

  “I sent a man to Hangchow—I thought you might want to know.” Pien could not refrain from a satisfied smirk at his own ingenuity.

  Wang made no comment on his lieutenant’s foresight. He only rubbed his beard and mused, “So, the little lotus blossom is not technically under the British protectorate . . . ?”

  “As a Christian convert, my lord, she might call upon the government, and with Wallace’s support would very possibly receive help,” suggested Pien.

  “Bah! The British government is not quick to come to the aid of converts! Too many of those Chinese betrayers have only espoused their Western religion for the protection the powerful governments can give them! But I think those times are past.”

  Wang leaned back against the wall, and, folding his hands before him, paused in thought. But it was only a reflex action. He knew what he must do; there was no need to deliberate over it.

  Pien cleared his throat timorously. He had one more piece of information to deliver. But how he wished he could have forgotten about it. He feared Wang’s reaction. Yet even more he feared for his life if his master discovered that he had withheld it.

  “It may be, my lord,” said Pien, “that swift action will be required in this matter.”

  Wang sat forward, glaring. “What can you mean? Speak quickly, you fool!”

  “It appears as if the girl and the British sailor”—here Pike perked up—“are becoming intimate.”

  “Intimate?” asked Wang. “How do you think so?”

  “They have been seen frequently together. Often alone.”

  “Ha, ha!” barked Pike, breaking at last his silent observation of the council.

  “What do you know of this?” demanded Wang, turning his menacing gaze on the sea captain.

  “Only that if there’s a pretty lass about,” answered Pike with just a touch of admiration mingled with his sarcasm, “Robbie Taggart’ll win her heart!”

  “What do I care?” shouted Wang, though inwardly galled that a cursed foreign devil should dare tamper with his prize. “Let him have her heart! It will do him little good when I have the rest.”

  Now it was Pike’s turn to become pensive. Expert manipulator of situations that he was, he had immediately taken note, as Wang spoke, of a small crack in the warlord’s redoubtable armor. The shrill, almost desperate quality of his outburst had told cunning Benjamin Pike more even than Wang realized about himself. To the egomaniac Chinese overlord, it was the final insult that the woman he wanted might have pledged her loyalties to another—a white man at that! Working upon him were thirteen years of shame at the hands of the girl’s mother.

  It took Pike but a moment to see how this realization could work to his advantage and help him see the fulfillment of his own cherished plan for revenge.

  “Of course, of course,” mumbled Pike as if the whole matter was of no concern to him. “What do a woman’s affections mean to a man like you?”

  “Love and affection are foolish Western notions,” said Wang. “They mean nothing in China when a man wants a woman.”

  “And a good custom it is too,” agreed Pike. “Who wants a woman’s love, her loyalty, eh? You’ll get what ye really want from the woman—and it don’t bother ye none if ye gots to hold a gun on her fer it. Ha, ha!” Pike laughed, leering at his captor, hoping he didn’t cross the line of the madman’s tolerance. “A man like yersel’ gets what he wants an’ who cares that she silently curses ye all the while, right, mate?”

  Wang suddenly lurched at Pike, grabbing the front of his shirt. “What are you trying to say, you foul pig?” he screamed. Pike had indeed taken his little game right to the edge of safety and was dangerously close to imperiling his life.

  Pike did not wince at the insult. He had sunk too low years ago to be bothered by verbal abuse, especially when he sensed himself gaining the upper hand in a life-and-death game of mouse chasing cat. “I wasn’t gettin’ at nuthin’, guv,” answered Pike nonchalantly.

  “You are saying I am a man who must use violence to win a woman!”

  “It don’t matter to you, now does it?”

  “No it doesn’t!” yelled Wang.

  “That’s good,” returned Pike calmly. “So ye’d have no interest in learning jist how ye might win this little lotus flower, win her completely.”

  In a mighty fit of wrath, still holding Pike’s shirt, Wang slammed the skipper’s body against the stone wall. “Speak your mind, imbecile!” shouted Wang, his mouth but an inch from Pike’s. The jolt had winded Pike, and, coughing and sputtering, it was a while before he could regain his previous composure. “Speak!” repeated Wang, “or you will die where you stand, you groveling fool!”

  Pike opened his
mouth. His voice was noticeably weaker, but he had come too far to falter now. Despite the warlord’s portentous bluster, he knew Wang was in the palm of his hand.

  “You know how women are, Lord Wang,” said Pike. “They like to be made o’er, they do. An’ the best attention ye can give a woman is fer two men to fight o’er her affections, if ye take my meaning. They love it—and it makes them love all the more the man what wins.”

  Wang loosened his deadly hold on Pike, allowing the skipper to collapse on the floor. He turned and paced about the room, rubbing his beard all the while. Finally he turned back to Pike.

  “Tell me what you have to say.”

  Pike pulled himself up as straight as his degenerated figure could go, and spoke with a casual tone, though triumph glistened in his yellowed eyes.

  “I figured ye was plannin’ on kidnappin’ the little lady,” he said. “Ye might jist go ahead as planned. Ye’ll win her in the end, but she might need a bit o’ proddin’ at first. Then, sure as my names’s Ben Pike, Robbie’ll come to try to rescue her.”

  “He will come alone?”

  “Now’s the Vicar’s gone, he don’t have no one but those missionaries—none of them Chinamen are going to help a white man get one of their women. And even so, he ain’t never goin’ to raise anything to match yer crowd here. So once he gets here, ye challenge him to a fight to the death, fer the hand of the woman. ’Course ye’ll win, ain’t that so?”

  “It is so, you white pig!”

  “There ye go!” laughed Pike. “She’ll see that ye was willing to risk yer life for her, an’ she’ll fall madly in love with ye.”

  Wang stopped his pacing. The dirty sea captain’s plan was simple enough, and was not without merit. Though why shouldn’t he simply take the girl and go? Why wait around for something to go wrong? What did he care, after all, if the daughter of Shan-fei loved him?