The Remittance-Woman/Chapter 7

by Achmed Abdullah

 

CHAPTER VII

“DEATH TO THE FOREIGNERS!”

A FEW minutes later, sitting across from Prince Pavel Alexandrovitch Kokoshkine, Marie did justice to a hearty Russian breakfast with a hearty American appetite. Occasionally, out of sheer, unthinking human liking and sympathy, she smiled at her host, who smiled back and who, when thrice she put down fork and cup, saying, “I want to tell you—ask you——” stopped her with a gesture.

“There is no hurry, Miss Campbell,” he said. “Eat—rest yourself. Are you in trouble?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. We’ll straighten it out for you—never fear!”

She believed that he would.

Several times the breakfast was interrupted by officers, Chinese and Russians, who came in, made reports, and were sent off with short, crisp words of command, and also by the sound—from a large maneuver field at the other end of the promontory, the prince explained to her—as the batteries there did target-practice with blank shells.

“Peaceful sort of life you are living here!” she remarked in one brief interval of silence.

He smiled.

Marie forgot her own quandary as she remembered what she had heard about this man, the imperialist, the former officer in the czar’s army, now drilling Cantonese troops, in the service of these Southern Chinese radicals, whose ideals must have been the very opposite of his own. With American directness she cut in on his hesitation.

“You are an aristocrat, a czarist, aren’t you?”

“The czar is dead, mademoiselle.”

“All right. But you are still an aristocrat.”

“Decidedly.”

“Then why do you——”

“Mademoiselle—please—we will not discuss my personal affairs. You came here, I take it, to talk about your own affairs.”

She was a little nettled.

“Oh, very well,” she replied. Then, quite suddenly, her slight ill humor disappeared. After all, the man was right. She had been rash, tactless. “I beg your pardon,” she said, smiling at him frankly.

“Oh—I did not mean to——”

“But I do beg your pardon. Really—truly! I should not have asked you. And now”—finishing her last glass of tea—“I want to tell you——”

“Do, Miss Campbell!”

“I am in a frightful mess, and Liu Po-Yat told me to come to you—at least, I guessed it was you she meant.”

“Oh—then she spoke before she died?”

“You know that she——”

“Was murdered? Yes, Miss Campbell. I know”—he smiled—“a great deal—pardon—of what affects you.”

“Seeing that my father is not here to correct my language, I suppose I may say what is on my mind—and express it exactly the way I feel?”

“Of course.”

“Very well. You’ve said a mouthful, Prince!” And while he laughed, she went on: “I would have been tremendously disappointed if you had not known all about me. Why should you have been the one exception in Canton? Why should you have been slighted? Everybody else here knows all about me—except my little self. Moses d’Acosta, Sun Yu-Wen, Monsieur Pailloux, Judge Winchester, the Chuen to yan in the Temple of Hor——”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, utterly surprised, “you know those last two?”

“I just came from there.”

“What?”

“I had such a pleasant interview with them.”

“And—they let you go, Miss Campbell?”

“No; I just went. That’s why I am here—breakfasting with you.”

“Tell me——”

“I hardly know where to begin.” But she told him all that had happened to her, as well as most of her suspicions and deductions, finally taking the North China Gazette clipping from her purse. “Here is the thing I told you about,” she ended. “Can you make head or tail of it?”

He took it, read it, then looked up.

“You said something about d’Acosta’s saying it referred to your uncle’s death and came out in the North China Gazette. Is it quite clear?”

“You call that clear?” said Marie. “What’s it all about?”

“Well,” he rejoined, “I really know a great deal about Chinese lore. Let’s dissect this sentence by sentence. Now, the first two exclamations of the article: ‘Omniscient Gautama! Far-seeing, all-seeing Tathagata!’ Taken with what it says afterward, as well as with what actually happened, the man who caused this to be printed in the Gazette——”

“My uncle?”

“Yes. By this double exclamation he tried to express two overlapping thoughts—one of death and the other materialistic. First, he appealed to the Buddha, the eternal deity. But using the word ‘Gautama,’ he demonstrated that he was addressing the Buddha in his reincarnation of Lord of the Dead, thus showing that he himself did not expect to live much longer. On the other hand, by using the decidedly more worldly ‘Tathagata’ appellation of the same Lord Buddha, he endeavored to show that although in the shadow of death, he was still sufficiently interested in materialistic affairs to appeal to the living, not to all living things, but only to those who were ‘far-seeing, all-seeing,’ and by this he meant those who would see far enough to understand the thing which was all-important to him. Clear so far, is it?”

“Oh, yes—after you play dragoman.”

“‘How multiform the consolation of Thy Word!’” continued the Russian. “This, too, is couched in mystic, esoteric language of Chinese theology, so that it may only be deciphered by the initiated. It means that the writer is not afraid of death or of what the future may bring—‘consolation,’ don’t you see? While, ‘How marvelous Thy Understanding’ refers again to the Buddha as well as being another reference to the living, those among the living to whom he is making this appeal, in the shadow of death—of murder, as he knew it would be, as it did turn out to be. And the last sentence contains the final appeal——”

“To the Buddha?”

“No, Miss Campbell; to one among the living—to you!”

“How do you know?” cried the girl.

“By one word in that last sentence: ‘Mara.’ It is the name of one of the feminine deities in the Buddhist heaven, comparable to Fate. But it is also——” He smiled. “Miss Campbell,” he went on, “doesn’t ‘Mara’ remind you of something?”

“Why——” She considered; then suddenly. “You don’t mean, by any chance, my own name—Marie?”

“Exactly! Marie—that’s what your father called you. But your mother’s name was Mara, and ‘Mara’ she called you. She died a few days after you were born, and your father left, a broken, sorrowful, embittered man. He had loved your mother much. Oh—it had been such a romantic meeting, such a sweeping love and passion! And all the obstacles he had to overcome! Your mother’s family and clan objecting—but, finally, your father won out. They were married. Then she died, and he took you back to America. Perhaps, with that superstitious Scotch mind of his, he was afraid of the name ‘Mara’—changed it to Marie.”

“How do you happen to know all this?”

“Part of my duty,” he replied.

“Duty?”—wonderingly.

“Yes. Political duty. And your father never told you a word?”

“He hardly ever mentioned my mother—the memory seemed to hurt him.”

“Nor of China?”

“Only when I left home, when I told him I was coming here. He asked me to take along the little Chinese vase. It seemed to him like a sort of talisman.”

“It is,” said the prince gravely. “A talisman of dominion—of ancient power and prophecy. Power—dominion—bitterly contested!” he added grimly, as again, from the outside, came the roar of the batteries at target-practice, a huge salvo belching up, stopping abruptly, then followed by another burst of sound waves like a giant beating a huge metal drum.

A moment later a giant, ruddy-complexioned Tartar came in. He was booted and spurred, dressed in a loose white tunic, the insignia of high military rank, embroidered over his heart in purple and silver. The Russian introduced him to Marie.

“Feofar Khan, the Tartar general.” He continued in a whisper, “One of your uncle’s best friends and, by the way, a relative of yours.”

“Oh!” Marie looked up, interested.

“Very distantly. Both your mother’s family and his own claimed descent from Genghis Khan, the Central-Asian freebooter who once conquered China in a moment of enthusiasm. Not very popular with the Chinese—these Tartar gentlemen.”

“So the Chuen to yan told me.”

The prince turned to Feofar Khan, who talked to him in rapid Mongol monosyllables, again bowed to Marie, saluted and withdrew.

“Am I interfering with your work?” asked the girl.

The prince appeared to be a little nervous. But he shook his head.

“No, no!” he said. “I’ve plenty of time—nearly half an hour. In the meantime—what we were talking about—why, it may, in fact, help me to—” He interrupted himself. “We were speaking about the Tchou-fou-yao vase, weren’t we?”

“Yes. And my uncle’s last message.” She pointed to the clipping. “Tell me one thing: Surely my uncle must have realized that I would not be able to interpret this cryptic message of his—even if I did chance to run across it?”

“As to your happening to run across it, tell me—when did you leave America?”

“The middle of August.”

“Your uncle died—was killed a few days after you left. After you left,” the prince repeated significantly. “He knew that you were coming here.”

“How did he know?”

“All these years he never lost track of you. You were his only blood kin, remember, the last descendant of his ancient clan. He knew you were coming to China, and assumed that you would see the papers as soon as you arrived. People pounce upon the papers after an ocean voyage. And the North China Gazette prints a special monthly edition to meet travelers on landing. That’s where this clipping is from.”

“I remember how the people grabbed those papers up in Hongkong.”

“You see, Miss Campbell? And as to your being able to decipher the message, well, a dying man will clutch at a straw. Your uncle, the last few months of his life, was surrounded by enemies. He did not dare write. He did not dare express his final message in words which his enemies might understand. But everybody in China knew that he was one of the world’s leading authorities on Buddhistic legends and frequently made translations of them for English papers. And so, surrounded by enemies, nearly alone, helpless, desperate, knowing that death was near, knowing furthermore, that you were on your way to China, he clutched at a straw.”

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

“I know 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—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, Su 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 they had.”

“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 the 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. 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. To-day, 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 to-day.”

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 father’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 Tartar 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’m afraid to leave her here, and of course I can’t take her along.”

“I’m 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 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 Tartar 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 Tartar 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!

Meanwhile, in the outer courtyard, the Russian, Tartar 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.

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 ferry-boats.

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.