ADVENTURE TALES #5

by John Gregory Betancourt

  “Straw is right!”

  “Perhaps, of course, he also de­pended on his friends to help you de­cipher it. Miss Campbell, I was your uncle’s friend, I could not help him — he was way out there in Urga, in Outer Mongolia — still, I was his friend —”

  “And — my friend?” she asked im­pulsively, holding out her hand.

  He took it in both his, raised it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Yes,” he said. “And I am very proud that you call me friend — very proud indeed!”

  He looked at her. A moment her gaze held his. Then she dropped her eyes. She blushed slightly — hated herself for blushing — as she felt a strange, sweet tightening about her heart. She forced her voice to be dry and quite matter of fact as she asked the next question:

  “Tell me — how does it happen that everyone here — I mean d’Acosta, Sun Yu-Wen, Pailloux, the Cantonese authorities — is all so well informed about me? Why — d’Acosta actually discovered that I liked the caviar they served aboard ship.”

  “I know that he did.” The prince laughed.

  “Didn’t you send some to Mr. d’Acosta for the dinner he invited me to last night?”

  “Guilty, Miss Campbell.”

  “Don’t apologize. It was first-rate. Still — why do they all know about me?”

  “Won’t you get it through your charm­ing little head that you are really a very important personage in China?”

  “Only in China?”

  “Also in the eyes of at least one Russian.”

  “Thank you, kind sir!”

  “You see, Miss Campbell, they are all playing for a gigantic stake here. So they employ spies, confidential cor­respondents. Take me, for example, I knew exactly when you left America — a friend of mine over there cabled me —”

  “Who?”

  “A young American with whom I became very chummy a few years ago in London when he was as­sis­tant ­sec­retary of the American embassy. Clever chap — very brilliant member of your own intelligence service — quite in sympathy with our party here. Chap called Van Zandt.”

  “You don’t mean Tom Van Zandt?”

  “The same.”

  “Incredible! Footless, dear old Tom! Why, his main interest in life seemed to be the color of his spats, and his one claim to distinction a jade cigarette-holder ten inches long!”

  “A great Manchu duke gave him that cigarette-holder,” said the prince, “because he helped the duke out of some grave political trouble.”

  “Tom,” she repeated, shaking her head, “who couldn’t say ‘boo’ to a goose!”

  “That’s one way of fooling the world,” explained the prince. “Van Zandt told me often that he considered his spats and his tiny mustache and the vacant stare in his eyes among his chief assets in the intelligence service. People, just naturally, think him a fool — and so they tell him things. You see,” — he consulted his watch — “you came here well advertised.” He rose and buckled on his sword.

  “Why did they all wait so long until they interviewed me about the Tchou-fou-yao vase?”

  “At first we were not sure if you had it.”

  “Who are ‘we’?”

  “D’Acosta, Sun Yu-Wen, and my­self.”

  “The three of you are friends, then?”

  “Very great friends — in a way. We even work for the same object — the same general aim. But there are differences of opinion — perhaps of ideals. I have no time to explain now.” And, while he saw to the loading of a brace of cavalry pistols, he went on, “A few days after your arrival, we sent a confidential agent to your hotel, a woman, she took a position as maid —”

  “Liu Po-Yat, the Manchu?”

  “Exactly. She told us as soon as she found out that the vase was in your possession. Even then we were careful. For we were not sure if you were fam­il­iar with the trinket’s significance. Also, we wondered if the other party —”

  “The Chuen to yan’s brother­hood —”

  “Yes. We wondered if they had ap­proached you, had perhaps come to terms with you — by — pardon me — bribery or perhaps threats, or skilful dip­lomacy. Pailloux had an idea.”

  “That bearded Frenchman seems to be a traitor.”

  “Evidently, But things in Canton were coming to a head. We dared wait no longer. The three of us decided to risk it, to come to you, to ask you for your help and trust in spite of Pail­loux’s advice —”

  “You did not come together?”

  “No. According to our old three-cornered agreement, given the — oh — difference in ideals, each proceeded independently of the other —”

  “A Far-Eastern idea of the Three Musketeers, eh?” She laughed. “All for all — and each one for himself! And Mr. d’Acosta got there first. He chose his moment well. He knew that I owed a large hotel bill —”

  “Oh, yes,” Kokoshkine smiled “He is a shrewd Levantine — a clever fin­an­cier.” He slipped the brace of pistols into his belt.

  “Why these murderous preparations?” asked Marie Campbell

  “Events are developing rapidly, gravely. A moment ago, when Feofar Khan came in, he told me that the Chuen to yan and Judge Winchester have found out about how you fooled them. Listen!” He pointed through the window whence, suddenly, the artil­lery practice having, ceased, there brushed in a great flourish of hoarse-throated trumpets — those three-yard-long, thin-snouted, straight-stemmed Chinese war-trumpets — blaring in a half-chorus, first hanging desperately on a high, shrill note, then suddenly tumbling an octave and roaring a bassoon-like charge in unison like a herd of enraged bulls. He picked up his ­military field-glasses, adjusted them, peered through them, and gave them to the girl. “Over there,” he said. “On the other side of the river. Look!”

  And she beheld there, minute but distinct through the powerful lenses, a large body of soldiery.

  “There are other garrisons in this town,” said the prince, “besides the one which I command — those over there are Prince Tuan’s men, Mohammedan ruffians from Kansuh and the west.” She saw the bright cluster of banners round the squadron ­com­mander, saw the horses and their riders pushing through the clouds of dust which floated high above them. She noted the bright crimson of their tunics and the blackness of their turbans, saw more men run up, carbines in hand, swing themselves rapidly into high-peaked saddles and gallop away in different directions.

  “War?” demanded the girl.

  “No. At least — not yet I told you — didn’t I? — that you are an important personage here. These troopers are being sent out to search the town for you, high and low. They will do their utmost. They must have the vase — and you. Today, if possible. And there is little they will stop at. They may actually invade the foreign quarter, the Shameen, and then —” he shrugged his shoulders “there will be trouble. That’s what Feofar Khan told me a while back. The Chuen to yan sent me orders to join them with a troop of horse.”

  “And — are you going to obey?”

  “Yes.”

  “But — you — a European — an imperialist, how can you?”

  A strange expression came into the gray eyes.

  “Miss Campbell,” came the enigmatic reply, “I have my own philosophy in life. And one of my maxims is that, even if you are the most devout Christian in the world, you cannot at­tempt to save your life by reciting the New Testament to the tiger who is about to pounce on you — nor that you can keep faith with the jackal, who could not keep faith with you. Never mind — I’ll explain it to you some other time,” — he kissed her hand — “when we shall be even greater friends than we are today.”

  *****

  A Cossack orderly entered, re­ceived an order in purring Russian and withdrew. Pavel Kokoshkine turned to the girl.

  “About the vase?” he asked. “It is in the hotel safe, you said?”

  “I left it there.”

  “And have I your permission to take it?”

  She pondered for a moment, re­mem­bering her fat
her’s words, that she should not use the vase unless she ab­solutely had to. And again she felt the sweet tightening about her heart as she looked at the Russian and then, quite suddenly, with a sublimely feminine lack of logic, she decided that the mo­ment had come of which her father had spoken.

  “Yes,” she said. “Take the vase.”

  “But — you don’t know how I shall use it — what I am going to do with it?”

  “Oh —”

  “You trust me, Miss Campbell?”

  “Yes.”

  “And — perhaps — you like me?”

  “Very much indeed.”

  “I am glad.” He tightened his belt-buckle. “You see,” — he said it very simply — “I love you — you don’t mind my telling you?”

  She did not reply at once. She had felt that this was going to happen. Finally she looked up, and said,

  “I am so glad you love me.”

  “You — you mean —” His voice cracked.

  “Yes, dear,” she replied to his un­finished question, and she walked up to him, her face uptilted, her lips slightly open, and, as he still hesitated, she lifted her hands and buried them in his thick curly hair. She drew him down to her and kissed his lips. Then she blushed, receded rapidly, hid her embarrassment in flippant, frivolous words:

  “Don’t you ever dare tell me that I proposed to you!”

  A moment later the door opened and Feofar Khan came in.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “Ready, General!” replied the prince.

  The Tatar bowed to the girl, then addressed his superior officer.

  “What about Miss Campbell?” he asked.

  “That’s what is bothering me,” said the other. “I am afraid to leave her here, and of course I can’t take her along,”

  “I am awfully sorry I am such a nuisance,” smiled Marie, and, after Ko­ko­shkine had explained to her that he had decided to take with him only those troopers whom he could trust absolutely, leaving the garrison in the hands of his Chinese men, that, on the other hand, he could not leave her here with the same Chinese soldiers, radicals every one of them, who, given the Chuen to yan’s many spies, might discover her identity and whereabouts, she said quite calmly that the only thing for him to do was to take her along.

  “Impossible!” cried the prince.

  “On the contrary — quite possi­ble,” said Feofar Khan. He bowed to Marie. “Miss Campbell,” he said, “I am a much married man. I have taken nearly the full quota of four which the Koran permits the true believer. And yet —” He smiled.

  “A proposal of marriage?”

  “Strictly temporary. Will you, for the time being, join the number of my wives?”

  “Safety in numbers!”

  “Even so,” objected the Russian, “the situation remains the same — the Chinese might suspect —”

  “Being Chinese, they will never guess at the simplicity of utter au­dacity,” said Feofar Khan. “On the other hand, being Asiatics, even these Southern radicals will draw the line at suspecting or searching the palanquin supposed to contain an inmate of my harem. Then in town, if we should have to, I have some Tatar friends who will take care of her.”

  Marie laughed.

  “I never imagined that there could be so many gorgeous thrills in the world,” she said.

  “My apartment is across the hall,” continued Feofar Khan, “I have with me some women servants from my own country, entirely trustworthy. They knew and worshiped your uncle. Come — we have not much time to lose.”

  *****

  He took Marie to his apartment and gave rapid instructions to three ruddy-complexioned old Mongol wo­men. They laughed and salaamed. He left; and a few minutes later Marie re­turned, looking for all the world like a Tatar girl of the far-western plains — that hardy race born and bred on horse­back — in a coat of heavily quilted silk that reached half-way to her knees, riding-boots, high-heeled and rowel-spurred, loose breeches of untanned leather, conical head-dress, and her face covered by an orthodox Moslem horsehair veil.

  “Breeches!” She laughed. “How shocked my father would be if he knew!” She surveyed herself in the mir­ror. “Rather becoming, don’t you think?”

  “Keep the costume,” Feofar Khan said “It is yours.”

  “Thanks! I shall wear it when I get back to New York — at the very first fancy-dress ball given by the junior League. I’ll be a riot!”

  *****

  Meanwhile, in the outer court­yard, the Russian, Tatar and Manchu troop­ers and officers were assembling as a giant Circassian captain brought the army-whistle to his lips, strapping on carbines and revolvers, others bring­ing out the horses, with a babel of cries in purring Slav and harsh Mongol. Con­fusion, impatience, a crackling of steel, a minister thumping of kettledrums, but finally order and discipline by the time that Prince Kokoshkine and Feo­far Khan came into the courtyard, where their orderlies were standing by their horses’ heads.

  Not long afterward there was the rhythmic thud of a dromedary’s padded feet and grumbling, spitting, protesting, the grotesque animal came into sight, a gaudy palanquin litter slung to the left of the great hairy hump, while the driver, Feofar Khan’s body-servant, was clinging precariously to the arrangement, half side-saddle and half chair. Came Marie, her eyes gleam­ing excitedly through the meshes of her veil, and escorted by Higginson, who, judging from his uniform, had by this time given up his ­seafaring vocation to take service in Prince Kokoshkine’s European contingent.

  Feofar Khan salaamed deeply be­fore Marie. He lifted her up into the palanquin litter and closed the thin curtains of yellow silk, but not before he had improved the occasion by as­suring her loudly in his native tongue, so that all the Mongol soldiers might understand, that she was the latest add­ition to his harem, his youngest and best beloved wife.

  *****

  Then there came a bugle-call and the cavalcade moved out of the courtyard with a jingle of spurs and sabers, Prince Kokoshkine riding on the left of the palanquin, Feofar Khan on the right, and so they rode down the hill and skirted the banks of the Pearl River, which they crossed farther down­stream with the help of half a dozen great flat ferryboats.

  All the way across, as they entered Canton proper, as they rode through the native streets, they heard the bull-like roar of Chinese war-trumpets. Panic was licking the town with a tongue of flame. The crowds, hardly knowing why, were beginning to grow uneasy, nervous. They rode down the street of Excellent Purity, past the Temple of the Monkey and the Stork. On its threshold stood a gaunt priest, holding a tall pole with a red banner high in his hands.

  “Pao Ch’ing Mien Yang!” he shouted, with the full force of his lungs. “Death to the works of the for­eigners and honorable loyalty to China!” His voice throbbed with fan­atic, horrible sincerity.

  “Pao Ch’ing Mien Yang!” Here and there, in the throng of coolies and mer­chants, isolated voices took up the cry, and Prince Kokoshkine spurred his horse more closely against the dromedary’s heaving flanks.

  “Don’t be afraid, Marie,” he whispered up through the curtains, rising in his stirrups.

  She smiled bravely.

  “I am not worrying, dear,” she said.

  *****

  “Pao Ch’ing Mien Yang!” cried the gaunt priest of the Temple of the Mon­key and the Stork.

  “Pao Ch’ing Mien Yang!” whim­p­ered an almond-eyed Canton­ese ser­vant in the Shameen, as he set his white master’s breakfast-table with min­ute care.

  “Kindly eschew political dis­cuss­io­ns — at breakfast, Wong,” said his master, who happened to pass through the dining room, and also happened to be Moses d’Acosta. “What is the trouble?” he asked.

  “No savvy,” came the reply in pid­gin, with the stereotyped words of all Chinese when they do not wish to speak the truth, and, once more the gentle, pa­tient servant, “Bleakfast leady.”

  D’Acosta smiled.

  “Eat it yourself,” he said. “I am going to
take mine at the Grand Hotel.” And he left the house and turned down the street.

  He swarms of blue-bloused coolies on their way to work. They seemed strangely tense, talking among themselves with a low hum­ming like that of a thousand angry bees.

  *****

  Walking on, d’Acosta met Mademoi­selle Droz, the exiled Parisian vau­de­ville actress, out on her morning con­stitutional.

  “You seem out of sorts, mon p’tit,” she said. “Any special reason?”

  “Yes.”

  “Namely?”

  “This is China — and we are white.”

  “Nothing new in that. We have always been white — and this has always been China.”

  “That’s just what I am kicking about.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. Don’t you think there is some­thing dis­concerting in being waited on by those who you know are waiting on murder and sudden death?”

  “Did your boy try to kill you?”

  “No. He is fond of me, and a de­cent lad.”

  “Then —”

  “He is a Chinese. He may slit my throat tomorrow, in spite of all his lik­ing for me.”

  “Why don’t you leave China if you don’t like it? You have plenty of money.”

  “Money? Bah!” He was quite sincere. “There are also my ideals.”

  “Ideals?” She gave a cynical laugh. “Ideals are like nuts. In time the kernel rots — and they become hollow. Eat them when they are fresh — then get new ones.”

  “You are too French for me this morning, mademoiselle.”

  “And you too Oriental. Au revoir, mon p’tit!”

  “Au revoir!”

  *****

  He walked on to the hotel. There the atmosphere seemed surcharged with electricity. The Chinese waiters whispered uneasily among themselves, and even the most supercilious, race-conceited European clerk at breakfast grew a little pale as he re­membered tales he had heard from old-timers about the Boxer outbreak.

  What made the Europeans uneasy was the fact that Pailloux, the hotel manager, was not about. When Moses d’Acosta entered the dining room, a dozen men rose and surrounded him.

  “What’s all the trouble? What is happening?”