The Keys of the Kingdom

by A. J. Cronin

  A penetrating silence followed the introduction of the prisoners. Wai studied them with deep and meditative cruelty. It was a hidden cruelty, sensed rather than seen, behind the mask of his face.

  ‘The voluntary gift has not been paid.’ His voice was flat, unemotional. ‘When my men advanced to the city to receive it one was killed and the other wounded.’

  A shiver passed over Father Chisholm. What he had dreaded had come to pass. He said:

  ‘Probably the message was never delivered. The bearer was afraid and ran away to his home in Shansee without going to Pai-tan.’

  ‘You are too talkative. Ten strokes on the legs.’

  The priest had expected this. The punishment was severe, the edge of the long square rod, wielded by one of the soldiers, lacerating his shins and thighs.

  ‘The messenger was our servant,’ Mrs Fiske spoke with suppressed indignation, a high spot of colour burning on her pale cheek. ‘ It is not the Shang-Foo’s fault if he ran away.’

  ‘You are also too talkative. Twenty slaps on the face.’

  She was beaten hard with the open palm on both cheeks while the doctor trembled and struggled beside her.

  ‘Tell me, since you are so wise. If your servant ran away why should my emissaries be waited upon and ambushed?’

  Father Chisholm wished to say that, in these times, the Pai-tan garrison was perpetually on the alert and would shoot any of Wai’s men on sight. He knew this to be the explanation. He judged it wiser to hold his tongue.

  ‘Now you are not so talkative. Ten strokes on the shoulders for keeping unnatural silence.’

  He was beaten again.

  ‘Let us return to our missions.’ Fiske threw out his hands, gesticulating, like an agitated woman. ‘I assure you on my solemn oath that you will be paid without the slightest hesitation.’

  ‘I am not a fool!’

  ‘Then send another of your soldiers to Lantern Street with a message which I will write. Send him now, immediately.’

  ‘And have him slaughtered also? Fifteen blows for assuming that I am a fool.’

  Under the blows the doctor burst into tears. ‘ You are to be pitied,’ he blubbered. ‘I forgive you but I pity, I pity you.’

  There was a pause. It was almost possible to observe dull flicker of gratification in Wai’s contracted pupils. He turned to Joshua. The lad was healthy and strong. He desperately needed recruits.

  ‘Tell me. Are you prepared to make atonement by enlisting under my banner?’

  ‘I am sensible of the honour.’ Joshua spoke steadily. ‘But it is impossible.’

  ‘Renounce your foreign devil god and you will be spared.’

  Father Chisholm endured an instant of cruel suspense, preparing himself for the pain and humiliation of the boy’s surrender.

  ‘I will die gladly for the true Lord of Heaven.’

  ‘Thirty blows for being a contumacious wretch.’

  Joshua did not utter a cry. He took the punishment with eyes cast down. Not a moan escaped him. But every blow made Father Chisholm wince.

  ‘Now will you advise your servant to repent?’

  ‘Never.’ The priest answered firmly, his soul illuminated by the boy’s courage.

  ‘Twenty blows on the legs for reprehensible obduracy.’

  At the twelfth blow, delivered on the front of his shins, there was a sharp brittle crack. An agonizing pain shot through the broken limb. Oh Lord, thought Francis, that’s the worst of old bones.

  Wai considered them with an air of finality. ‘ I cannot continue to shield you. If the money does not arrive tomorrow I have a foreboding that some evil may befall you.’

  He dismissed them blankly. Father Chisholm could barely limp across the courtyard. Back in the yao-fang Mrs Fiske made him sit down and, kneeling beside him stripped off his boot and sock. The doctor, somewhat recovered, then set the broken limb.

  ‘I’ve no splint … nothing but these rags.’ His voice had a high and tremulous ring. ‘It’s a nasty fracture. If you don’t rest it’ll turn compound. Feel how my hands are shaking. Help us, dear Lord! We’re going home next month. We’re not so –’

  ‘Please, Wilbur.’ She soothed him with a quiet touch. He completed dressing the injury in silence. Then she added: ‘We must try to keep our spirits up. If we give in now, what’s going to happen to us tomorrow?’

  Perhaps it was well that she prepared them.

  In the morning the four were led out into the courtyard, which was lined with the population of Tou-en-lai, and humming with the promise of a spectacle. Their hands were tied behind their backs and a bamboo-pole passed between their arms. Two soldiers then seized the ends of each spit and, raising the prisoners, marched them in procession round the arena six times, in narrowing circles, bringing up before the bullet-pocked façade of the house where Wai was seated.

  Sick with the pain of his broken leg, Father Chisholm felt, through the stupid ignominy, a terrible dejection, amounting to despair, that the creatures of God’s hand should make a careless festival out of the blood and tears of others. He had to still the dreadful whisper that God could never fashion men like this … that God did not exist.

  He saw that several of the soldiers had their rifles, he hoped that a merciful end was near. But after a pause, at a sign from Wai, they were turned about and frog-marched down the steep path, past some beached sampans on a narrow spit of shingle, to the river. Here, before the reassembled crowd, they were dragged through the shallows and each secured with cord to a mooring stake in five feet of running water.

  The switch from the threat of sudden execution was so unexpected, the contrast to the filthy squalour of the cave so profound, it was impossible to escape a sensation of relief. The shock of the water restored them. It was cold from the mountain springs, and clear as crystal. The priest’s leg ceased to pain him. Mrs Fiske smiled feebly. Her courage was heartrending.

  Her lips shaped the words: ‘At least we shall get clean.’

  But after half an hour a change set in. Father Chisholm dared not look at his companions. The river, at first so refreshing, gradually grew colder, colder, losing its gentle numbness, compressing their bodies and lower limbs in an algid vice. Each heartbeat, strained to force the blood through frozen arteries, was a throb of pulsing agony. The head, engorged, floated dismebodied, in a reddish haze. With his swimming senses the priest still strove to find the reason of this torture, which now he dimly recollected as ‘ the water ordeal’, an intermittent sadism, hallowed by tradition, first conceived by the tyrant Tchang. It was a punishment well suited to Wai’s purpose, since it probably expressed his lingering hope that the ransom might still be paid. Francis suppressed a groan. If this were true, their sufferings were not yet over.

  ‘It’s remarkable.’ With chattering teeth the doctor tried to talk. ‘This pain … perfect demonstration of angina pectoris . . intermittent blood supply through constricted vascular system. O blessed Jesus!’ He began to whimper. ‘ O Lord God of Hosts – why hast thou forsaken us? My poor wife … thank God she has fainted. Where am I? … Agnes … Agnes …’ He was unconscious.

  The priest painfully turned his eyes towards Joshua. The boy’s head, barely visible to his congested gaze, seemed decapitated, the head of a young Saint John the Baptist on a streaming charger. Poor Joshua – and poor Joseph! How he would miss his eldest-born. Francis said gently:

  ‘My son, your courage and your faith – they are very pleasing to me.’

  ‘It is nothing, Master.’

  A pause. The priest, deeply moved, made a great effort to stem the torpor stealing over him.

  ‘I meant to tell you, Joshua. You shall have the roan pony when we return to the mission.’

  ‘Does the Master think we shall ever return to the mission?’

  ‘If not, Joshua, the good God will give you a finer pony to ride in heaven.’

  Another pause, Joshua said faintly:

  ‘I think, Father, I should prefer the little pony at the miss
ion.’

  A great surging flowed in Francis’ ears, ending their conversation with waves of darkness. When the priest came to himself again they were all back in the cave, flung together in a sodden heap. As he lay a moment, gathering his senses, he heard Fiske talking to his wife, in that querulous plaint to which his speech had fallen.

  ‘At least we are out of it … that dreadful river.’

  ‘Yes, Wilbur dear, we are out of it. But unless I mistake that ruffian, tomorrow we shall be into it again.’ Her tone was quite practical as though she were discussing the menu for his dinner. ‘Don’t let’s delude ourselves, dearest. If he keeps us alive it’s only because he means to kill us as horribly as possible.’

  ‘Aren’t you … afraid, Agnes?’

  ‘Not in the least, and you mustn’t be either. You must show these poor pagans … and the Father … how good New England Christians die.’

  ‘Agnes dear . . you’re a brave woman.’

  The priest could feel the pressure of her arm about her husband. He was greatly stirred, reshaken by a passionate concern for his companions, these three people, so different, yet each so dear to him. Was there no way of escape? He thought deeply, with gritted teeth, his brow pressed against the earth.

  An hour later when the woman entered with a dish of rice he placed himself between her and the door.

  ‘Anna! Do not deny that you are Anna! Have you no gratitude for all that was done for you at the mission? No –’ She tried to push past him. ‘I shall not let you go until you listen. You are still a child of God. You cannot see us slowly murdered. I command you in His name to help us.’

  ‘I can do nothing.’ In the darkness of the cave it was impossible to see her face. But her voice, though sullen, was subdued.

  ‘You can do much. Leave the hatch unfastened. No one will think to blame you.’

  ‘To what purpose? All the ponies are guarded.’

  ‘We need no ponies, Anna.’

  A spark of inquiry flashed in her lowering gaze. ‘If you leave Tou-en-lai on foot you will be retaken next day.’

  ‘We shall leave by sampan … and float down-river.’

  ‘Impossible.’ She shook her head with vehemence. ‘ The rapids are too strong.’

  ‘Better to drown in the rapids than here.’

  ‘It is not my business where you drown.’ She answered with sudden passion: ‘Nor to help you in any manner whatsoever.’

  Unexpectedly, Dr Fiske reached out in the darkness and gripped her hand. ‘Look, Anna, take my fingers and give heed. You must make it your business. Do you understand? Leave the door free tonight.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘No.’ She hesitated, slowly withdrew her hand. ‘ I cannot tonight.’

  ‘You must.’

  ‘I will do it tomorrow … tomorrow … tomorrow.’ With an odd change of manner, a sudden wildness, she bent her head and darted from the cave. The hatch closed behind her with a heavy slam.

  And a heavier silence settled upon the cave. No one believed that the woman would keep her word. Even if she meant it, her promise was a feeble thing to weigh against the prospects of the coming day.

  ‘I’m a sick man,’ Fiske muttered peevishly, laying his head against his wife’s shoulder. In the darkness they could hear him percussing his own chest. ‘My clothes are still sopping. D’you hear that … it’s quite dull … lobar consolidation. Oh, God, I thought the tortures of the inquisition were matchless.’

  Somehow the night passed. The morning was cold and grey. As the light filtered through and sounds were heard in the courtyard, Mrs Fiske straightened herself with a look of sublime resolution on her peaked and pallid face, still girded by the shrunken head-dress. ‘Father Chisholm, you are the senior clergyman here. I ask you to say a prayer before we go out to what may be our martyrdom.’

  He knelt down beside her. They all joined hands. He prayed, as best he could, better than he had prayed in all his life. Then the soldiers came for them.

  Weakened as they were, the river seemed colder than before. Fiske shouted hysterically as they drove him in. To Father Chisholm it now became a hazy vision.

  Immersion, his thoughts ran mazily, purification by water, one drop and you were saved. How many drops were here? Millions and millions … four hundred million Chinese all waiting to be saved, each with a drop of water …

  ‘Father! Dear good Father Chisholm!’ Mrs Fiske was calling him, her eyes glassy with a sudden feverish gaiety. ‘ They are all watching us from the bank. Let us show them. An example. Let us sing. What hymn have we in common? The Christmas Hymn, of course. A sweet refrain. Come, Joshua … Wilbur … all of us.’

  She struck up, in a high quavering pipe:

  ‘Oh, come, all ye faithful,

  Joyful and triumphant …’

  He joined with the others:

  ‘Oh, come ye, oh, come ye, to Bethlehem.’

  Late afternoon. They were back in the cave again. The doctor lay on his side. His breath came raspingly. He spoke with an air of triumph.

  ‘Lobar pneumonia. I knew it yesterday. Apical dullness and crepitations. I’m sorry, Agnes, but … I’m rather glad.’

  No one said anything. She began to stroke his hot forehead with her bleached sodden fingers. She was still stroking when Anna came to the cave. This time, however, the woman brought no food with her.

  She did no more than stand in the entrance staring at them with a kind of grudging sullenness. At last she said:

  ‘I have given the men your supper. They think it is a great joke. Go quickly before they discover their mistake.’

  There was an absolute silence. Father Chisholm felt his heart bound in his racked, exhausted body. It seemed impossible that they might leave the cave of their own free will. He said: ‘God will bless you, Anna. You have not forgotten Him and He has not forgotten you.’

  She gave no answer. She stared at him with her darkly inscrutable eyes which he had never read, even on that first night amidst the snow. Yet it gave him a burning satisfaction that she should justify his teaching, openly, before Dr Fiske. She stood for a moment, then glided silently away.

  Outside the cave it was dark. He could hear laughter and low voices from the neighbouring yao-fang. Across the courtyard there was a light in Wai’s house. The adjacent stables and soldiers’ quarters showed a feeble illumination. The sudden barking of a dog sent a shock through his tortured nerves. This slender hope was like a new pain suffocating in its intensity.

  Cautiously, he tried to stand upon his feet. But it was impossible, he fell heavily, beads of perspiration breaking on his brow. His leg, swollen to three times its natural size, was quite unusable.

  In a whisper he told Joshua to take the half-unconscious doctor on his back and carry him very quietly to the sampans. He saw them go off, accompanied by Mrs Fiske, Joshua bent under his sacklike burden, keeping cleverly to the dense shadows of the rocks. The faint clatter of a loose stone came back to him, so loud it seemed to wake the dead. He breathed again; no one had heard it but himself. In five minutes Joshua returned. Leaning on the boy’s shoulder, he dragged slowly and painfully down the path.

  Fiske was already stretched out on the bottom of the sampan with his wife crouched beside him. The priest seated himself on the stern. Lifting his useless leg with both hands he arranged it out of the way, like a piece of timber, then propped himself against the gunwale with his elbow. As Joshua climbed into the bow and began to untie the mooring rope he seized the single stern oar in readiness to push off.

  Suddenly a shout rang out from the top of the cliff, followed by another and the sound of running. A loud commotion broke, dogs set up a violent barking. Then two torches flared in the upper darkness and came rapidly, amidst shrill voices and excited, clattering footsteps, down the river path.

  The priest’s lips moved, in the anguished immobility of his body. But he remained silent. Joshua, fumbling and tearing at the matter rope, knew the danger, without the added confusion of a command
.

  At last, with a wild gasp, the boy pulled the rope loose, falling backwards against the thwarts. Instantly, Father Chisholm felt the sampan float free and with all his remaining strength he fended it into the current. Out of the slack water, they spun aimlessly, they began to slide downstream. Across and behind them, the flares now showed a group of running figures on the bank. A rifle-shot cracked, followed by an irregular volley. The lead skipped the water with a twanging hum. They were sliding faster now, much faster; they were almost out of range. Father Chisholm was staring into the dark wall ahead with almost feverish relief when suddenly, amidst the scattered shooting, a great weight struck at him out of the night. His head rocked under the impact of what seemed a heavy flying stone. Beyond the crashing blow he had no pain. He raised his hand to his wet face. The bullet had smashed through his upper jaw, torn out by his right cheek. He kept silent. The firing ceased. No one else was hit.

  The river now moved them forward at intimidating speed. He was quite sure in his own mind that it must ultimately join the Hwang – no other outlet was possible. He leaned forward towards Fiske and, seeing him conscious, made an effort to cheer him.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Pretty comfortable, considering I’m dying.’ He repressed a short cough. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such an old woman, Agnes.’

  ‘Please don’t talk, dear.’

  The priest straightened himself, sadly. Fiske’s life was ebbing away. His own resistance was almost gone. He had to fight an almost irresistible impulse to weep.

  Presently an increase in the volume of the river’s sound heralded their approach to broken water. The noise seemed to blot out what vision was left him. He could see nothing. With his single oar he pulled the sampan straight with the current. As they shot down, he commended their souls to God.