“But my good man,” said Professor Ayrton, “why? For what reason? What is your authority?”
The officer glowered at him, fingered his revolvers, changed his mind, and shouted an order. The soldiers rushed forward and seized the Professor and Derrick. The monk and Li Han had already disappeared: they might have melted into the thin air, for Derrick had never seen them go.
It was useless to resist, so they allowed themselves to be hustled along to a closed Peking cart: their captors threw them in and mounted guard outside.
The Professor put on his spectacles and rummaged through his notes. “How very annoying,” he exclaimed, when he had looked through them. “I have left several pages under a stone in the temple. I will just go and . . .” Still speaking, he put his head out of the cart: the guard instantly hit him with the butt of his rifle, and he fell back unconscious. Derrick pulled him into a more comfortable position, and held his head on his knees. A few minutes later there was a shouting outside; the cart lurched into motion, and the troops moved off.
Derrick was worried, far more worried than he had ever been before. He did not know what to do, or where they were going, or whether the soldiers were bandits. He listened to the voices of the troops through the creaking and rumble of the cart, but those who were nearest to him were peasants from a province whose dialect was incomprehensible to him.
They went on and on. It was horribly stuffy inside the closed cart, and Derrick began to feel very thirsty. The Professor was still knocked out, but his breathing and his pulse were steady: that was the one comfort Derrick could find in the whole situation.
Hour followed hour, and Derrick had ample time to reflect upon all the disagreeable possibilities that might await him. Whether the soldiers were bandits or not, it was almost certain that they would hold their prisoners to ransom, for the war-lords were utterly lawless in these remote provinces, and they obeyed the governments orders or defied them as they pleased. And Derrick knew what happened if the ransom were not paid.
Then another thought seized him, and a worse one: there were several war-lords who hated all foreigners, and would even forgo a ransom for the pleasure of killing them—killing them in the Chinese manner. And the worst of all these was the rebel leader Shun Chi: it was he who had raised the cry “All foreign devils to the sea,” and it was he who had so recently killed the three completely inoffensive European priests.
Derrick shuddered as he remembered what he had heard in the serai of the fashion of their death. If these men who were marching outside the cart belonged to Shun Chi, then there was very little hope: and these men had been bitterly hostile from the first—if they belonged to Shun Chi, of course they would hate foreigners at sight.
Once the cart stopped. It sounded as though they were in a village or a town, and from the shouting Derrick thought they were changing the horse. He cautiously put his head out to ask for water; he half-expected a blow, and when it came he dodged it by an inch.
After that he sat for hours and hours in the bottom of the cart, holding the Professor’s head. When the cart stopped next he was grasped by two men and dragged out. It was dark: he could not tell where they were, but as he was pushed into the camp he saw the outline of steep hills against the western sky.
Two men held his arms, hurried him over the rough ground, and thrust him into a tent: there was a man there, sitting at a table, writing. He was obviously their leader, and several officers stood behind him. Derrick staggered forward, blinking in the light. The man at the table glared at him, and Derrick glared back.
He was a short man, thick and middle-aged, but he was the toughest-looking man Derrick had ever seen, and there was a very dangerous expression in his eyes.
For a moment Derrick almost lost his courage: but then he saw that the man’s left ear was hardly there at all; at some time it had been chewed off. He felt a violent thrill of relief, and he cried, “You are Hsien Lu!”
CHAPTER FIVE
“SO WHAT?” snapped Hsien Lu.
“Is Mr. Ross here?” asked Derrick. “My uncle and Mr. Ross have been looking for you.”
“What you mean?” said Hsien Lu, narrowing his eyes.
“Mr. Ross——” began Derrick.
“Sandy Loss? You know Sandy Loss?” cried Hsien Lu. “You say Loss? The pilate, live Canton-side one time?”
Why is he talking pidgin-English? wondered Derrick. Then he remembered that he himself had cried out in that language first. “Yes, I know Mr. Ross—Sandy Ross—” he replied, in Chinese, “he is my uncle’s partner. But he is not a pirate.”
Hsien Lu stood up and came round the table. He was still appallingly ugly, but the wicked look had gone out of his face. He pulled up a chair and sat staring in Derrick’s face. “You are Sullivan’s nephew,” he said at last, searching in his memory. “What is your name?”
“Derrick.”
“Dellick. That’s right.” The Tu-chun smiled and clapped his hands for tea. “But how do you come to speak Chinese?” he asked, with a sudden return of suspicion.
“My parents were missionaries,” explained Derrick: he was feeling suddenly very weary, and he wanted above all to ask for the Professor to be taken care of; but the Tu-chun went on, “Where is Loss?”
“In Liao-Meng, I think—but please could I go and see to my cousin? He was hit on the head. He is an old, learned man, and he was hit on the head like a—like a beast,” cried Derrick, with a sudden burst of rage at the memory of it.
Hsien Lu murmured a quick order, and two officers hurried from the tent. “Never mind,” he said to Derrick, “he will be looked after. Now tell me where they started from, and where they were going.”
Derrick had lived in China nearly all his life: he knew that he would never be able to sit down in the presence of an elder, let alone a Tu-chun, however weary and faint he might be, so he gathered his wits, concentrated his attention, and answered Hsien Lu’s questions as clearly and as briefly as he could. The war-lord went on and on; he wanted to know a great deal, and Derrick had to stifle gigantic yawns. Soon he was conscious of the Tu-chun’s voice alone, coming as from a great distance: he jerked himself into wakefulness, and answered “Yes” at haphazard. He kept himself alert for some time, but then again the voice went booming on: it was somewhere in the distance, and it seemed to be stating that Ross and Sullivan had blown up four competing pirate junks in the harbour of Pu Ying itself, the stronghold of the society of the Everlasting Wrong: but that might have been a dream; it came and went in snatches, and in another moment Derrick was fast asleep where he stood.
He woke up suddenly, and it was the morning. He was in a strange bed, and for some time he could not remember where he was. Li Han stood beside him, offering a cup of tea: on the other side of the tent Professor Ayrton lay on a comfortable palliasse, already sipping at a bowl of tea. His head was bandaged, but he seemed quite recovered. He nodded to Derrick and said, “Good morning, my boy. How do you feel?”
“Fine, thank you, sir. How is your head?”
“It spins like a teetotum, but it appears to be whole, which is a blessing. I must admit, however, that I deserved the blow. I am afraid that my ill-timed enthusiasm for the abbot’s stelae overruled my caution. We might easily have been caught by Shun Chi instead of the excellent Hsien Lu, and then we should have been in a pretty mess, as I believe the phrase goes. What a deserving man the Tu-chun appears to be: he came to me by candle-light to offer his compliments and excuses, and he assured me that if it would afford me the slightest pleasure he would arrange to have the soldier who was so impetuous with his rifle-butt tortured to death in front of this tent at sunrise, together with the officer. He seemed quite disappointed when I declined the entertainment, but I made up for it by complimenting him on his English—which he appears to have picked up in the Philippines, by the way—and by telling him that of all the military men I had ever met in China he was by far the most swollen guy. It gratified him very much.”
“I’m sure it did, s
ir,” said Derrick, taking his tea. “How did you get here, Li Han?”
“During arbitrary arrest of worthy sage,” said Li Han, bowing towards the Professor. “I imitated humble but cautious earthworm in nook, or cranny, of temple wall, and subsequently pursued brutal and licentious soldiery at discreet distance for more than twenty li. On perceiving honourable welcome accorded by Tu-chun when all was understood, ventured to insinuate self into tent and proclaim humble presence.”
Hsien Lu hurried into the tent; he was so moved that he could hardly complete the long drawn-out ceremonial greetings before he said, “Shun Chi has taken Ross and Sullivan. They were ambushed on the way to Liao-Meng. I must go and give orders. If you have any charms, Ayrton lao-yeh, use them now.” He hurried away.
There was a profound silence.
“What do you think will happen, sir?” asked Derrick, at last.
“I hesitate to think,” replied the Professor, seriously. “This Shun Chi hates all foreigners, except for the Russian agitators who are egging him on to clear China of all Europeans and Americans. It is just possible that he will hold them to ransom, but . . .” his voice tailed away uncertainly.
“Will Hsien Lu be able to smash Shun Chi’s army?”
“No. That is the worst aspect of the whole affair. Shun Chi has already driven Hsien Lu out of Liao-Meng. Formerly Hsien Lu could cope with him, but recently Shun Chi has received modern arms from the Russians, together with military advisers and experts in the use of the new weapons; whereas Hsien Lu has to rely on old-fashioned rifles and the usual Chinese tactics of wearing hideous masks in battle and letting off crackers. He cannot possibly face Shun Chi’s machine-guns. And now they say that Shun Chi has three tanks, and that he is advancing with them to bring matters to a decisive close.”
“I suppose they took us for Russians when they captured us.”
“Yes. That was why they were so unpleasant. Hsien Lu has captured one—he is going to cut off his head this afternoon.”
“Couldn’t you beg him off?”
“I doubt it. And after all, the man has asked for it. It seems to me a very wicked thing to bring modern arms into this part of the world to enable this rascal Shun Chi to slaughter anyone who opposes his ambitions. Before these Russians came the Tu-chun and the rebels were comparatively harmless: they more or less played at war, and very rarely killed anybody. The armies used to take the field with umbrellas and tea-pots, and they would stop the battle if it came on to rain. But now it is all different: there is really savage warfare breaking out, and thousands of innocent people are going to be murdered.”
“Why do they do it?”
“They have ends of their own to serve. I have a mind to question this prisoner: he might give us some useful information. If the Tu-chun will promise me his life I may be able to get something out of him. A man will do a lot for his life.”
“But do you speak Russian, Professor?”
“Yes, indeed. I studied for many years in St. Petersburg before the revolution, and I have a White Russian colleague at the university with whom I always speak in that language. I dare say that I could pass for a Russian myself, if the need arose.”
After a short consultation with Hsien Lu they went to the tent where the prisoner lay. He was a tall, fair man, dressed in the Mongolian style, with high boots and a sheepskin jerkin. For a long while the Professor spoke to him, but the man only replied in monosyllables.
“I shall have to try something else,” said the Professor, leaving the tent. He walked up and down, thinking. Then he said, “We shall go back now. When I turn to you and say something that you do not understand, you must reply ‘Da, da.’ Then a little later I will tell you to do something and you must say ‘Ochen chorosho, tovarich’ and leave the tent. Repeat that several times, will you?”
When Derrick was word-perfect they went back to the tent. The Professor spoke in a low, urgent voice to the prisoner: the man seemed to come alive; he answered many times—long, whispered sentences that sounded like questions. The Professor appeared to be reassuring him; he turned to Derrick and said something, looking at him with hidden meaning. “Da, da,” said Derrick. And then, a little later, the Professor turned to him and said something that sounded like an order. Derrick said, “Ochen chorosho, tovarich,” and hurried out.
He had a long time to wait. He paced up and down until the sun was high up in the sky. At last the Professor came out, with a triumphant look on his face.
“Is it all right?” asked Derrick.
“Hush, boy,” whispered the Professor, leading him out of earshot. “Yes, I have got the information I wanted. But I am afraid I was obliged to resort to a most distasteful form of deception to get it. However, perhaps its importance will justify the deceit.”
“What did you tell him, sir?” asked Derrick.
“I told him that I was a secret agent working on his side—that I had been sent to Hsien Lu to deceive and entrap him. At length, when it appeared that you too understood Russian he believed me, and he told me that he was the man who was entrusted with the care of the new consignment of machine-guns and bombs that had been sent to Shun Chi for his final attack on Hsien Lu. He was supposed to join the four other Russians in the rebels’ camp in order to supervise the operation of these weapons.”
“Then without him they won’t be able to use them?”
“No. I am afraid that is not the case. The other men know enough about these guns and bombs to manage without him. It is a very bad business, Derrick: the day after tomorrow Shun Chi will attack Hsien Lu. He has lorries and tanks, and with these he can bring up his forces more rapidly than the Tu-chun can retreat. And once he attacks, with these new mortar-bombs and the tanks, I think that it will be all up with Hsien Lu, and as for the fate of your uncle and Mr. Ross . . .” he stopped, and shook his head.
For a long while neither of them spoke. Then Derrick said, “I have an idea, sir. It may seem a feeble one, but it is an idea.”
“Tell me. I have been racking my brains, but I can think of nothing that is not obviously foolish.”
“Well, couldn’t you go and say that you are this Russian? You could take his papers, and you could manage the language all right.”
“Yes, and then?”
“Why, then you could throw a spanner in the works somehow.”
“But how? That is the point. The first part would not be too difficult. Stavrogin—that is the prisoner—has never seen the other Russians who are with Shun Chi, and we are much the same size and build, though he is younger than I am. Yes, I think they might take me at my face value. But what could I do then?” The Professor wiped his spectacles: he was deeply distressed.
“Perhaps you could get Shun Chi to let you talk to Uncle Terry and Mr. Ross. You could pretend to question them, and they might give you some better idea; they are very good that way.”
“Yes, I am sure they are. Yes. That is undoubtedly the best course of action: at all events it is better than waiting here impotently doing nothing. I am obliged to you for the suggestion.” He sat down with his head between his hands. “There are difficulties,” he said, after some thought, “many of them. I hardly know one end of a machine-gun from another. And the same applies to a bomb. They have so far come so very little into my life, you see. In the last war they kept me at home all the time for liaison work in unusual languages, you see, and I never saw a shot fired. Dear me, this is a singular position for an elderly archaeologist. But, as you say, we must do something. And apart from anything else, I should like to hamper this fellow Shun Chi if it is at all possible. Hsien Lu is a very good fellow in his own rough way, and he has a due respect for learning; whereas this Shun Chi. . . .” He went on to inveigh against the rebel leader’s total lack of culture, while Derrick thought furiously.
“We must get cracking,” said Derrick. “There is no time to be lost.”
“Very well, my boy. I will speak to Hsien Lu. Really, you seem to have a most practical mind in these difficult ci
rcumstances. I suppose it is your sea-training.”
The war-lord welcomed their proposal. He agreed to spare the prisoner’s life, according to the Professor’s promise, but he stripped the unfortunate man to the skin, and gave the Professor his clothes.
“You will have to wear these,” he said, “and here are his papers. I hope you will be able to ensnare the despicable Shun Chi, but if your esteemed intelligence succeeds in this project, I beg that the first consideration should be the safety of Mr. Ross. I owe him a debt of gratitude, and if necessary I will attack with my whole army to set him free, although I have little hope of prevailing against Shun Chi’s ignoble strategy.”
He gave them all they asked, horses, weapons and a guide, and he added a little packet of quick poison, so that they should die easily if Shun Chi caught them.
Derrick was determined to go too, whatever the Professor might say. He privately asked the Tu-chun whether there were any Mongols in his camp, and when the Tu-chun said that there were four, Derrick begged to be allowed to change clothes with the smallest of them. He was accustomed to Mongol clothes—he had often worn Chingiz’s—and when Li Han, working feverishly, had altered them a little they looked natural enough. He greased his face as a Mongol does against the wind, using old and dirty grease, and he pulled the sheepskin hood low over his face. When the Professor saw him, he did not recognise him until he spoke, and his objections died away.
“I should not permit it,” he said hesitantly. “You ought to ride back to Chien Wu with Li Han. But I must admit that I would be very glad to have you at hand: I am not very much use in these emergencies. The danger of your being discovered is certainly very much less.” He stared hard at the Mongol figure in front of him. “But if there is the slightest unfortunate incident, you must give me your word to ride straight back to Chien Wu, where Olaf will be able to get you out of the country. At the slightest mishap, and at the slightest untoward word, you understand? Fortunately Hsien Lu has given us the best horses in the country.”
The Road to Samarcand Page 8