“We’ve done it!” yelled the Young Vanguard. “We’ve broken through again!” In his excitement Little Mauser hurled his overlarge cap high into the air and danced a little jig. “There’ll be no holding us now!” Turning to his young captives, he slapped them on the shoulders. “Now you know what a real army can do, don’t you?”
The cook boy’s Sons looked at one another uncertainly. Although momentarily spellbound by the swirl of military activity among the spectacular crags of the Loushan Pass, Big Liang and his brother remained oblivious to the heady, celebratory atmosphere spreading rapidly along the marching columns of Communist troops. Gazing back the way they had come and forward in the direction of the crowded mountain pass, they scanned the seething mass of soldiery with anxious expressions — but nowhere could they catch a glimpse of their father with his bouncing pannier baskets moving in the wake of the manacled figure of Pastor Ke.
“Does this mean we might see our father again soon?” asked Little Liang plaintively.
“Forget about seeing your father,” yelled Little Mauser. “Winning the battle of Loushan is far more important. Come on!” Poking them with his sharpened stick once again, the Young Vanguard urged them toward the pass at a run.
12
I’m afraid the news from China about Jakob is not good,” said the bespectacled Moss Side minister in a measured voice. “He escaped from captivity briefly last month, but was recaptured. His jailers now say they’ve put him on trial for the ‘crime’ of escaping, and the ‘fine’ they’re demanding has been doubled, to three hundred thousand Chinese dollars. What’s worse, they say unless the sum is paid very soon, they will execute Jakob as a spy . .
Weak shafts of pale March sunshine struggling through the grimed windows of the crowded Moss Side church hail illuminated two empty chairs in the front row close to the dais of polished pine from which the minister spoke. He glanced at the unoccupied places for a moment before surveying the gathering gravely over the rims of his spectacles. In their turn, the parishioners looked anxiously back at him, sitting still and upright in their seats.
Among them was a reporter from the Daily Dispatch who had attended the November meeting. He was seated near the door and on hearing the minister mention the threat of execution, he looked up sharply from the notebook in which he was writing.
“Please excuse my interruption, sir,” he murmured apologetically, “but was any specific date mentioned?”
“Yes, next Monday, a week from today,” said the minister quietly. “Jakob’s captors demand that the ransom be paid to a go-between before then — if it isn’t, they say they’ll put him to death.”
The reporter thanked the minister and scribbled a note on his pad, but the rest of the congregation received the news in a stunned silence.
“This of course isn’t the first time that Jakob’s persecutors have threatened to kill him,” continued the minister. “Soon after his capture similar threats were made. Since the Anglo-Chinese Mission has a strict policy which does not permit the payment of ransom, an answer has been sent to the latest demand stating that the conditions for Jakob’s release can’t possibly be met. . .
The minister shuffled some papers before him on the small tabletop lectern and picked up a telegram. He scanned its contents briefly, then looked up again at the audience.
“Almost five months have passed since we first gathered here to pray for Jakob and his family. Since then we’ve never ceased to remember the Kellners in our prayers, but during that time we’ve received very little information about Jakob, and the harrowing effect of all this uncertainty, I’m sure, is responsible for the fact that Jakob’s parents have not felt able to join us today.”
The minister paused for a moment and looked significantly in the direction of the two empty chairs; then he lowered his eyes again to the lectern.
“But although the news is not good, it encourages us to think that our prayers so far have not been in vain. The communication from Jakob’s captors giving this ultimatum to the headquarters of the AngIo-Chinese Mission, in Shanghai, at least confirms that Jakob is still alive. What’s more, it revealed that his infant daughter, who was reported missing after the kidnap in November, has also quite miraculously survived. It seems she is being carried and cared for by one of Jakob’s household servants”
A gasp of surprise and relief rose from the body of the hail, followed by an excited buzz of conversation. When it died away, the minister picked up a handwritten letter and glanced around the hail again.
“Also, you’ll be glad to know that although it’s impossible to pay the ransom, some steps are being taken in China to help Jakob. Mr. Matthew Barlow, the director-general of the Anglo-Chinese Mission, is himself traveling by mountain chair through the remote regions of southwest China in an effort to secure Jakob’s release. Some of you may remember that Matthew Barlow came to this very hall to address us in person fourteen or fifteen years ago. He made a deep impression on us all with his enthusiasm and determination, and we must pray for the success of his efforts, because at great personal risk he is pursuing the armed force holding Jakob prisoner. He is carrying with him five hundred dollars’ worth of medicines and a small amount of silver as an offering of goodwill to Jakob’s captors. A rich Chinese Christian who wishes to remain anonymous has, I believe, donated the silver. It amounts to about ten thousand dollars. . .
Another buzz of comment rose from the audience, and the minister glanced down at the letter in his hand, his expression fleetingly indecisive. Then he squared his shoulders, having decided not to spare his audience the unpleasantness of the truth.
“Mr. Barlow has written an open letter to everybody here in Moss Side which has just reached us,” said the minister gravely. “It is ten weeks old and does not make pleasant reading, but I think you should hear what it says in essence. Accompanied by another, younger missionary, Mr. Barlow has traveled in torrential rains, snow, and bitter cold, crossed swollen rivers and streams without number, and climbed mountains and hills almost daily, often without even a track to follow. His journey has also taken him to many scenes of devastation and destruction. He reports seeing skeletons and bodies hanging in the trees beside the tracks; he has passed through many deserted, burned-out villages and seen many casualties of bombing and other horrors of modern warfare. Famine conditions caused by the presence of thousands of government and Red Army soldiers on the march have made it difficult often to obtain food. Traveling and carrying heavy loads on primitive tracks under these conditions have been very trying. For a time, a Communist intermediary was guiding them, but he disappeared unaccountably and this has made their task even more difficult. But Mr. Barlow is still doing his best, and his example is a great inspiration to us all in these very worrisome circumstances.”
Outside the hail, the pale sunlight of the cold spring day faded suddenly behind a bank of clouds. Rain, quiet at first, began to drum against the roof and windows and grew gradually heavier. The light inside the hall became thick and gloomy but the gathering ignored the weather, giving all their attention to the minister, who carefully set aside the letter from which he had been reading and leaned forward on the lectern.
“Many of you here, I know, would gladly cross those same swollen rivers and climb those same mountains with Mr. Barlow to try to help Jakob, if you could. That unfortunately isn’t possible. But because many of you have expressed a strong wish to do something practical to help Jakob, it was decided two weeks ago to try and raise petitions locally. The suggestion is that these petitions be sent to our own government in London and to the Chinese government to remind them of their duty to help restore Jakob’s freedom. This meeting, as you know, has been called to gather in those petitions, and I now invite all those who have been collecting signatures to bring them up.”
The minister signaled to two men seated in the first row and they moved forward to stand by a little table that had been set up below the dais. In the body of the hall many men and women rose to their feet,
tugging well-thumbed sheets of paper from their pockets and handbags, and one after another they filed quietly to the front. Most of them placed a clinking bag of small copper coins on the table beside their petition sheets, and the minister’s two assistants jotted figures in their notebooks after exchanging a few words with each organizer. When all were seated again, the little table was piled high with signature-covered petitions and bags of cash. After a whispered conversation with his assistants, the minister beamed around at his audience, visibly moved.
“To my astonishment, you’ve gathered the signatures of more than thirty thousand people. You’ve worked with great diligence. Through you, thirty thousand people of this city have shown their love and concern for one of their fellow men. And although nobody was asked to give money, many signatories offered a few coppers. Enough money has been donated, in fact, to allow representatives from here to travel personally to London to present the petition, if that is what you decide you want. .
A prolonged burst of spontaneous applause rose from the gathering and the minister waited patiently until it died away.
“Since last November,” he said, raising his voice to make it heard above the noise of the rain, “an unseen battle between good and evil has been going on in China. We’ve offered our prayers regularly and now today we’ve learned that we are bolstered by the support of thousands of other people outside our church. But we mustn’t falter in our devotions. Saint Paul reminds us that ‘God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.’ Jakob, when he thinks of his home, will know we are concerned for his safety. He needs our prayers to sustain him, whether he realizes it or not. Many thousands of members of the Anglo-Chinese Mission and its supporters around the world have also been praying daily for Jakob but we are his friends and neighbors and we have a special duty. So let us be sure we don’t fail to use our spiritual strength to the full.”
Bowing his head slightly, the minister invited the congregation to join him in prayers for Jakob and his daughter and at once the crowded hall fell silent. He led a succession of fervent supplications and then the broad-voweled voices of three hundred or so of Jakob’s closest countrymen swelled in unison as they recited the Lord’s Prayer together. The familiar words were immediately consoling and encouraging to the worshipers and for a few brief moments the sound of the prayer, recited with a heartfelt intensity, blotted out the noise of the spring storm raging in the cobbled streets outside.
13
A steady, day-long drizzle seeping from leaden skies had drenched the threadbare clothes of Lu Mei-ling, and as her mule carried her higher up an ancient mountain path beneath a vertical cliff of rock she felt her wet garments freezing slowly on her body. The mane of her mount was stiff with icicles and the tall grass brushing her knees in the darkness was already cloaked with ice.
Inside her tunic she hugged the body of her infant son fiercely against her breast, imagining that she could feel some occasional movement of his mouth. But several hours had passed since she had truly felt him twist and squirm in her grasp and despite the jolting movement of the mule on the rough track, she knew in her heart there was no longer any mistaking the stillness of his limbs.
Her head and shoulders were swathed in a blanket in which the moisture was also freezing and from time to time she still bent her head toward her chest in a listening attitude, as she had been doing for several days past. No reassuring whimper or even a fevered cough was any longer audible, but she continued to squeeze the tiny, frail body obsessively against the warmth of her own flesh as though she hoped that she could somehow sustain and revive the child by an act of will.
A few torches of split bamboo flared in the hands of guards escorting the General Headquarters column, and by their light she could make out the heavily built figure of Otto Braun hunched miserably on his mount, riding apart from the Chinese leaders of the Red Army. Through the fierce cold, which had reduced everyone to silence, men and animals alike were moving with a slow ponderousness. But although she registered these things, Mei-ling remained indifferent to what she saw: it was as if the unending marches had numbed her senses and the only reality she felt was the flesh-and- blood infant .who had been dying in her arms for many days.
“Mei-ling, are you all right?”
Mei-ling recognized the voice of her brother immediately but she did not turn her head or reply. His right shoulder and arm, which had been wounded at the Hsiang River, were still swathed in a sling and it was only with difficulty that Chiao spurred his horse alongside her mule on the narrow path and repeated the question with greater concern. But still she made no answer. “How is the baby?” he persisted. “Is he keeping warm enough?”
“Please, Ta ko, don’t ask any more questions about the baby.”
The sharpness of his sister’s reply startled Chiao and he turned in the saddle to peer into her face. She had spoken in a hollow, remote voice, her gaze fixed determinedly ahead, and he looked at her closely in the flickering light of the burning torches, half expecting to find tears on her cheeks. But she was dry-eyed and her blank expression remained unchanging under his inspection. Glancing at the outline of the baby beneath the bulk of the blanket, he could detect no sign of movement, and he noticed then that there was something unnatural in the way his sister was clasping the child tight against herself.
“I will make any arrangements for you that are necessary,” he said quietly. “It would be better not to mope too long.”
“I will call you, Ta ko, when I need help!”
She spoke again in the same sharp, distant tone, holding herself straight in the saddle as though oblivious to the freezing cold. With only one hand on the reins she was paying little attention to controlling the mule, letting it find its own way up the mountain.
“Perhaps it’s not entirely bad that this has happened,” said Chiao gently. “Things will be better for you. You’ll be able to devote yourself fully to your duties with the Military Commission again — and now that there’s bad blood between Hua Fu and the rest of the leadership, it will be easier to distance yourself from him without the baby.”
Mei-ling made no effort to reply. Somewhere ahead in the darkness rifle fire broke out and Chiao cocked his head to listen; but the firing remained sporadic and distant, and no order was given to extinguish the torches or cease conversation, as was usual when danger threatened.
“Mao Tse-tung’s wife decided to give up her newborn baby last week,” continued Chiao. “It was wrapped in a shawl and handed to a peasant family with twenty silver dollars. At least you’ve been spared that agony.”
“All you’ve said is true,” said Mei-ling in a low voice. “I know that well enough in my mind. But no matter how much she wants to change the world, a woman’s heart doesn’t concern itself only with revolution.”
She tugged the stiffening blanket more tightly about herself and shuddered Her eyes closed and in the same moment her face looked both determined and vulnerable. It was suddenly obvious to Chiao that the conflict between her loyalty to the revolutionary cause and her natural maternal instincts was causing her anguish, and he struggled to find words with which to comfort her.
“Is the child’s father concerned?” he asked.
“He has shown little interest in the child since its birth,” said Mei— ling wearily. “He broods only about his illness and how our leaders have turned against him.”
They rode in silence for a while; then Chiao moved his horse closer to her. “I’ll arrange for the burial,” he said softly, resting his hand on her arm. “It will be better done without fuss.”
To Chiao’s surprise his sister steered her mule abruptly away from him, clutching the body of her dead child to her more closely than before. Her eyes opened very wide as she turned her head toward him and for the first time he saw the acuteness of her distress. “Say nothing to anybody. Just leave me alone.”
Without waiting for his reply, she dug her heels into the mule and forced it ahead up
the mountain track. Chiao stared after her in dismay: in silhouette against the flickering torches ahead of them, he watched his sister bend her head over the bundle in her arms, and although he could not be sure in the gloom, he thought he saw her shoulders begin to shake in a fit of weeping.
14
Higher up the ancient mountain path that imperial couriers had trodden over many centuries, the Red Army’s prisoners had been herded into a series of low-ceilinged caves that were little more than shallow holes in the vertical cliff face. Alone on the floor of one of the smaller caves Jakob squatted, shivering on an oilcloth which Liang had been allowed to spread out for him. His rain-drenched padded gown was frozen stiff about his shaking body and because only a temporary halt had been called, his hands were still lashed tight behind his back.
Outside the mouth of the cave his guard had lit a small fire over which he was warming himself. The blaze, however, was too far away from Jakob to thaw out his clothing; only the smoke swirled into the hole in the rock, causing the missionary’s eyes to smart. On the plain below the mountain during daylight the marchers had swung past fields of dark earth in which new shoots of green wheat and sorghum were sprouting. Despite the incessant drizzle, the early spring air had been warm and the abrupt drop in temperature as they climbed the mountain after dark had come as a shock, chilling their thin, underfed bodies to the bone.
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