by A. J. Cronin
Sister Martha cackled too quickly: ‘Yes, yes, then it would be easy.’ As Clotilde’s stiff face made the effort to smile the far-off guns rolled again.
After a moment he left the refectory and pressed on to the lodge where Joseph and Fu stood at the wide-open gates. His people were pouring in with their belongings, young and old, poor humble illiterate creatures, frightened, eager for safely, the very substance of suffering mortality. His heart swelled as he thought of the sanctuary he was giving them. The good brick walls would afford them sound protection. He blessed the vanity which had made him build them high. With a queer tenderness, he watched one aged ragged dame, whose withered face bespoke a patient resignation to a long life of privation, stumble in with her bundle, establish herself quietly in a corner of the crowded compound, and painstakingly begin to cook a handful of beans in an old condensed-milk can.
At his side, Fu was imperturbable but Joseph, the valiant, showed a slight variation of his normal colour. Marriage had altered him, he was no longer a careless youth, but a husband and a father, with all the responsibilities of a man of property.
‘They should hurry,’ he muttered restively. ‘ We must lock and barricade the gates.’
Father Chisholm put his hand on his servant’s shoulder. ‘ Only when they are all inside, Joseph.’
‘We are going to have trouble,’ Joseph answered with a shrug. ‘Some of our men who have come in were conscripted by Wai. He will not be pleased when he finds they prefer to be here rather than to fight.’
‘Nevertheless they will not fight,’ The priest answered firmly. ‘Come, now, don’t be despondent. Run up our flag, while I watch at the gate.’
Joseph departed, grumbling, and in a few minutes the mission flag, of pale blue silk with a deeper blue St Andrew’s cross, broke and fluttered on the flagstaff. Father Chisholm’s heart gave an added bound of pride, his breast was filled with a quick elation. That flag stood for peace and goodwill to all men, a neutral flag, the flag of universal love.
When the last straggler had entered they locked the gates provisionally. At that moment Fu drew the priest’s attention to the cedar grove, some three hundred yards to the left, on their own Jade hillside. In this clump of trees a long gun had unexpectedly appeared. Indistinctly, between the branches, he could see the quick movements of soldiers, in Wai green tunics, trenching and fortifying the positon. Though he knew little of such matters the gun seemed a far more powerful weapon than the ordinary field-pieces now in action. And even as he gazed there came a swift flash, followed instantly by a terrifying concussion and the wild scream of the shell overhead.
The change was devastating. As the new heavy gun deafeningly pounded the city, it was answered by a Naian battery of ineffectual range. Small shells, falling short of the cedar grove, rained about the mission. One plunged into the kitchen garden, erupting a shower of earth. Immediately a cry of terror rose in the crowded compound and Francis ran to shepherd his congregation from the open into the greater safety of the church.
The noise and confusion increased. In the classroom the children were in a milling stampede. It was Reverend Mother who stemmed the panic. Calm and smiling, but shouting above the bursting shells, she drew the children round her, made them close their ears with their fingers and sing at the pitch of their lungs. When they became calmer they were herded quickly across the courtyard into the cellars of the convent. Joseph’s wife and the two children were already there. It was strange to see all these small yellow faces, in the half-light, amongst stores of oil and candles and sweet potatoes, below the long shelves on which stood Sister Martha’s preserves. The screaming of the shells was less down below. But from time to time there was a heavy shock, the building shook to its foundations.
While Polly remained below with the children, Martha and Clotilde scurried to fetch them lunch. Clotilde, always highly strung, was now almost out of her wits. As she crossed the compound a spent piece of metal struck her lightly on her cheek.
‘Oh, God!’ she cried, sinking down. ‘I’m killed!’ Pale as death she began to make an act of contrition.
‘Don’t be a fool.’ Martha shook her fiercely by the shoulder. ‘Come and get these wretched brats some porridge.’
Father Chisholm had been called by Joseph to the dispensary. One of the women had been slightly wounded in the hand. When the bleeding was controlled and the wound bandaged, the priest sent both Joseph and the patient over to the church, then hurried to the window, anxiously gauging the effects of the bursts, damaging puffs of débris, as the shells from the Wai gun exploded in Pai-tan. Sworn to neutrality, he could not repress a terrible desire, surging and devastating, that Wai, the unspeakable, might be defeated.
Suddenly, as he stood there, he saw a detachment of Naian soldiers strike out from the Manchu Gate. They flowed out like a stream of grey ants, perhaps two hundred of them, and began in a ragged line to mount the hill.
He watched them with a dreadful fascination. They came quickly, at first, in little sudden rushes. He could see them vividly against the untroubled green of the hillside. Bent double, each man bolted forward, carrying his rifle, for a dozen yards, then flung himself, desperately, upon the earth.
The Wai gun continued firing into the city. The grey figures drew nearer. They were crawling now, flat on their stomachs, completing their toiling ascent in that blazing sun. At a distance of a hundred paces from the cypress grove they paused, hugging the slope, for a full three minutes. Then their leader gave a sign. With a shout they jumped erect and rushed on the emplacement.
They covered half the distance rapidly. A few seconds and they would have reached their objective. Then the harsh vibration of machine guns resounded in the brilliant air.
There were three, manned and waiting, in the cypress grove. At their jarring impact the rushing grey figures seemed to stop, to fall in sheer bewilderment. Some fell forwards, others on their backs, some for a moment upon their knees, as though in prayer. They fell all ways, comically, then lay still, in the sunshine. At that, the rattling of the Maxims ceased. All was stillness, warm and quiet, until the heavy concussion of the big gun boomed again, reawakening everything to life – all but those quiet little figures on the green hillside.
Father Chisholm stood rigid, consumed by the torment of his mind. This was war. This toylike pantomime of destruction, magnified a million times, was what was happening now on the fertile plains of France. He shuddered, and prayed passionately: O Lord, let me live and die for peace.
Suddenly his haggard eye picked up a sign of movement on the hill. One of the Naian soldiers was not dead. Slowly and painfully, he was dragging himself down the slope in the direction of the mission. It was possible to observe the ebbing of his strength in the gradual slowing of his progress. Finally he came to rest, utterly spent, lying on his side, some sixty yards from the upper gate.
Francis thought. He is dead … this is no time for mock-heroics, if I go out there I will get a bullet in my head … I must not do it. But he found himself leaving the dispensary and moving towards the upper gate. He had a shamed consciousness as he opened the gate: fortunately no one was watching from the mission. He walked out into the bright sunshine upon the hillside.
His short black figure and long black shadow were shockingly obvious. If the mission windows were blank he felt many eyes upon him from the cypress grove. He dared not hurry.
The wounded soldier was breathing in sobbing gasps. Both hands were pressed weakly against his lacerated belly. His human eyes gazed back at Francis with an anguished interrogation.
Francis lifted him on his back and carried him into the mission. He propped him up while he relocked the gate. Then he pulled him gently into shelter. When he had given him a drink of water he found Maria-Veronica and told her she must prepare a cot in the dispensary.
That afternoon another unsuccessful raid was made on the gun position. And when night fell Father Chisholm and Joseph brought in five more wounded men. The dispensary assumed the a
ppearance of a hospital.
Next morning the shelling continued without interruption. The noise was interminable. The city took severe punishment, and it looked as if a breach were being driven in the western wall. Suddenly, at the angle of the Western Gate, about a mile away, Francis saw the main body of the Wai forces bearing in upon the broken parapet. He thought with a sinking heart, they are in the city. But he could not judge.
The remainder of the day passed in a state of sick uncertainty. In the late afternoon he liberated the children from a cellar and his congregation from the church to let them have a breath of air. At least they were unharmed. As he went among them, heartening them, he buoyed himself with this simple fact.
Then, as he finished his round, he found Joseph at his side, wearing for the first time a look of unmistakable fear.
‘Master, a messenger has come over from the Wai gun in the cedar grove.’
At the main gate three Wai soldiers were peering between the bars while an officer, whom Father Chisholm took to be the captain of the gun crew, stood by. Without hesitation Francis unlocked the gate and went outside.
‘What do you wish of me?’
The officer was short, thickset and middle-aged, with a heavy face and thick mulish lips. He breathed through his mouth, which hung open, showing his stained upper teeth. He wore the usual peaked cap and green uniform with a leather belt, bearing a green tassel. His puttees ended in a pair of broken canvas plimsols.
‘General Wai favours you with several requests. In the first place you are to cease sheltering the enemy wounded.’
Francis flushed sharply, nervously. ‘The wounded are doing no harm. They are beyond fighting.’
The other took no notice of this protest. ‘Secondly, General Wai affords you the privilege of contributing to his commissariat. Your first donation will be eight hundred pounds of rice and all American canned goods in your storerooms.’
‘We are already short of food.’ Despite his resolution, Francis felt his temper rise; he spoke heatedly. ‘You cannot rob us in this fashion.’
As before, the gun captain let the argument pass unheeded. He had a way of standing sideways, with his feet apart, delivering each word across his shoulder, like an insult.
‘Thirdly, it is essential that you clear your compound of all whom you are protecting there. General Wai believes you are harbouring deserters from his forces. If this is so they will be shot. All other able-bodied men must enlist immediately in the Wai army.’
This time Father Chisholm made no protest. He stood tense and pale, his hands clenched, his eyes blazing with indignation. The air before him vibrated in a red haze. ‘Suppose I refuse to comply with these most moderate solicitations?’
The obstinate face before him almost smiled. ‘That, I assure you, would be a mistake. I should then most reluctantly turn our gun upon you and in five minutes reduce your mission, and all within, to an inconsiderable powder.’
There was a silence. The three soldiers were grimacing, making signs to some of the younger women in the compound. Francis saw the situation as cold and clear-cut as a picture etched on steel. He must yield, under threat of annihilation, to these inhuman demands. And that yielding would be but the prelude to greater and still greater demands. A dreadful sweep of anger conquered him. His mouth went dry, he kept his burning eyes on the ground.
‘General Wai must realize that it will take some hours to make ready these stores for him … and to prepare my people … for their departure. How much time does he afford me?’
‘Until tomorrow.’ The officer answered promptly. ‘ Provided you deliver to me before midnight at my gun position a personal offering of tinned goods together with sufficient valuables to constitute a suitable present.’
Again there was a silence. Francis felt a dark choking swelling of his heart. He lied in a suppressed voice: ‘I agree. I have no alternative. I will bring you your gift tonight.’
‘I commend your wisdom. I shall expect you. And I advise you not to fail.’
The captain’s tone held a heavy irony. He bowed to the priest, shouted a command to his men, and marched off squatly towards the cedar grove.
Francis re-entered the mission in a trembling fury. The clang of the heavy iron gate behind him set a chain of febrile echoes ringing through his brain. What a fool he had been, in his fatuous elation, to imagine he could escape this trial. He … the dove-like pacifist. He gritted his teeth as wave after wave of pitiless self-anger assailed him. Abruptly, he rid himself of Joseph and of the silent gathering who timidly searched his face for the answer to their fears.
Usually he took his troubles to the Church, but now he could not bow his head and tamely murmur: Lord, I will suffer and submit. He went to his room and flung himself violently into the wicker chair. His thoughts for once ran riot, without the rein of meekness or forbearance. He groaned as he thought of his pretty gospel of peace. What was to happen to his fine words now? What was to happen to them all?
Another barb struck him – the needlessness, the crass inanity of Polly’s presence in the mission at such a time. Under his breath he cursed Mrs Fiske for the interfering officiousness which had subjected his poor old aunt to this fantastic tribulation. God! He seemed to have the cares of all the world upon his bent incompetent shoulders. He jumped up. He could not, he would not, yield, weakly, to the maddening menace of Wai’s threat and the deadlier menace of that gun which grew in his feverish imagination, swelled to such gigantic size it became the symbol of all wars, and of every brutal weapon built by man for the slaughter of mankind.
As he paced his room, tense and sweating, there came a mild knock at his door. Polly entered the room.
‘I don’t like to disturb you, Francis … but if you have a minute to spare …’ She smiled remotely, using the privilege of her affection to disturb his privacy.
‘What is it, Aunt Polly?’ He composed his features with a great effort. Perhaps she had further news, another message from Wai.
‘I’d be glad if you’d try on this comforter, Francis. I don’t want to get it too large. It should keep you nice and warm in the winter.’ Under his bloodshot gaze she produced a woollen Balaclava helmet she was knitting him.
He scarcely knew whether to weep or laugh. It was so like Polly. When the crack of doom resounded she would no doubt pause to offer him a cup of tea. There was nothing for it but to comply. He stood and let her fit the half-finished capote upon his head.
‘It looks all right,’ she murmured critically. ‘Maybe a trifle wide about the neck.’ With her head on one side and her long wrinkled upper lip pursed, she counted the stitches with her bone knitting-needle. ‘Sixty-eight. I’ll take it in four. Thank you, Francis. I hope I haven’t troubled you.’
Tears started in his eyes. He had an almost irresistible desire to put his head on her hard shoulder and cry brokenly, outrageously; ‘Aunt Polly! I’m in such a mess. What in God’s name am I to do?’
As it was, he gazed at her a long time. He muttered: ‘ Don’t you worry, Polly, about the danger we’re all in here?’
She smiled faintly. ‘Worry killed the cat. Besides … aren’t you looking after us?’
Her ineradicable belief in him was like a breath of pure cold air. He watched her wrap up her work, skewer it with needles and, giving her competent nod, silently withdraw. Somehow, beneath her casualness, her air of commonplace, there lay a hint of deeper knowledge. He had no doubts now as to what he must do. He took his hat and coat, made his way secretly towards the lower gate.
Outside the mission the deep darkness blindfolded him. But he went down the Brilliant Green Jade road towards the city, rapidly, heedless of any obstacle.
At the Manchu Gate, he was sharply halted and a lantern thrust close against his face, while the sentries scrutinized him. He had counted on being recognized – he was, after all, a familiar figure in the city – yet his luck went further still. One of the three soldiers was a follower of Shon who had worked all through the plague epidemi
c. The man vouched for him immediately and after a short exchange with his companions agreed to take him at once to the Lieutenant.
The streets were deserted, choked in parts with rubble and ominously silent. From the distant eastern section there came occasional bursts of firing. As the priest followed the quick padding footsteps of his guide he had a strange exhilarating sense of guilt.
Shon was in his old quarters at the cantonment, snatching a short rest, fully dressed, on that same camp bed which had been Dr Tulloch’s. He was unshaven, his puttees white with mud, and there were dark shadows of fatigue beneath his eyes. He propped himself upon his elbow as Francis entered.
‘Well!’ he said slowly. ‘I have been dreaming about you, my friend, and your excellent establishment on the hill.’
He slid from the bed, turned up the lamp and sat down at the table. ‘You do not want some tea? No more do I. But I am glad to see you. I regret I cannot present you to General Naian. He is leading an attack on the East section … or perhaps executing some spies. He is a most enlightened man.’
Francis sat down at the table, still in silence. He knew Shon well enough to let him talk himself out. And tonight the other had less to say than usual. He glanced guardedly at the priest. ‘Why don’t you ask it, my friend? You are here for help which I cannot give. We should have been in your mission two days ago except that then we should merely have been blown to pieces together by that infamous Sorana.’
‘You mean the gun?’
‘Yes, the gun,’ Shon answered with polite irony. ‘I have known it too well for a period of years … It came originally from a French gunboat. General Hsiah had it first. Twice I took it from him with great trouble, but each time he bought it back from my commandant. Then Wai had a concubine from Pekin’ who cost him twenty thousand silver dollars. She was an Armenian lady, very beautiful, named Sorana. When he ceased to regard her with affection he exchanged her to Hsiah for the gun. You saw us try to capture it yesterday. It is not possible.… Fortified … Across that open country … with only our piff-paff battery to protect us. Perhaps it is going to lose us our war … just when I am making a great personal advancement with General Naian.’