A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  The men came bursting out of the hatches, firing blindly toward the source of the gunfire. Some of them slid over the sides into the shallow river and waded ashore. Bullets kicked up geysers of water around the crouching marines, but they returned the fire.

  Finally the Boxers gave way and Admiral Seymour, who had watched the action, said to his second-in-command, “I intend to be in Peking by nightfall!”

  But he was wrong. When the troops disembarked from the boats and crowded into waiting trains to make the journey to Peking, Amos kept close to the marines.

  “This should be a pleasant journey,” he heard one officer say.

  “Expect so,” said another. “Hope we get to see some action.”

  He got his wish—and more!

  The train had traveled no more than ten miles before it ran into an ambush. The marines were hustled off the train and drawn up into battle lines. MacClintock shouted, “Stuart, better get out of this!” But Amos paid no heed.

  For the next few hours, the Boxers charged again and again with a ferocity such as none of the Americans had dreamed possible. There seemed to be no end to it, and in the end, the attacks went on for two days. The railroad had been ripped up in front of them, so there was no way for the force to go onward except on foot, and that was impossible.

  Some dispatches from the fleet advised Seymour that the Imperial Army had joined with the Boxers. “This is no longer an isolated attack by some peasants, but a planned military campaign by national troops,” he told his officers. We’ll have to go back to Tientsin and relieve the garrison there.”

  “But what about the legations in Peking?” an officer demanded.

  Seymour heaved a sigh. “I’m afraid they’ll have to take their chances.” He calculated a minute, then said, “I think we must try to get them word that we won’t be coming…at least, not until I can raise a sizable force. Send a small group of marines. Have them use that guide, Ho Sin. He can take them through the back country.”

  “Dangerous work,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “If the Boxers catch them, they’ll be butchered.”

  Seymour shrugged. “We’ll have to risk it.”

  When Amos discovered that Sergeant MacClintock was going to Peking with a message, he volunteered. “I’ll go along, Joe.”

  “Your insurance paid up?”

  “Sure!”

  “Can you shoot?”

  “I did some of that going up San Juan Hill.”

  His answers satisfied the sergeant. “All right, Amos, let’s go pay our little visit to Peking!”

  Amos Stuart never forgot the next five days. The guide Ho Sin tried to make the small force turn back many times, for he was shattered with fear. But Sergeant MacClintock kept him under guard night and day, knowing that he would abandon them at the slightest opportunity.

  “We’ll travel by night,” MacClintock informed his men—only ten in all, including Willie Summers, who had practically begged to be allowed to go. “We stay with the roughest country and keep out of sight. Anyone sees us, we take them with us so they can’t give no alarm.”

  Amos had little hope of a successful mission, for the land was flat and filled with small villages. But they ate cold rations, made no fires, and at dawn on the second day of June, Ho Sin pointed at the shadowy outline of a city.

  “Peking!” he announced, and a cheer went up from the patrol.

  They hurried across the farms surrounding the city, and when they reached the streets, MacClintock shouted, “Here, now, you’re marines! Look the part!” Willie Summers puffed out his chest and stepped up his gait as the small group marched into the heart of the city.

  MacClintock had seen a map of the city and knew exactly where they were going. He showed the map to Amos as they made their way down the streets. “Look, Stuart, here’s a map of Peking. The Captain gave it to me. We’re supposed to go to the legation quarter.”

  “There it is, not far from the palace.” Amos pointed to a spot on the map. “I don’t think they’re going to be too happy to see us…not with the bad news we’ve got to give them.”

  “I can’t help that,” the sergeant grunted. Then he looked up. “Look…a welcoming committee.”

  Amos had seen the small group of men and women even before MacClintock spoke. An undersized man wearing steel-rimmed glasses led the group, and there was a smile on his rather bland face. “Welcome to Peking,” he said, his voice high-pitched and clear. “I’m Lemuel Gordon. I presume the other forces are not far behind?”

  Sergeant MacClintock saw that they were all expecting good news, especially the women. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the communiqué he was carrying and handed it to Gordon. “Message from Admiral Seymour, sir.”

  As Gordon opened the sealed envelope, a woman with a baby in her arms smiled in relief. “Your men look worn out, Sergeant. You need food and rest.” She turned to the small man and her smile faded. “What’s the matter, Lemuel?”

  Gordon cleared his throat and turned to face the small group who had accompanied him. “There will be a slight delay, I’m afraid. The Admiral has met more opposition than he had expected. He’s taken the main force back to Tientsin until the units arrive from home.”

  “But…that’s impossible!” The speaker had arrived just in time to hear Gordon’s statement. “I’m Sir Claude MacDonald, Sergeant, commander-in-chief here in Peking. What’s the meaning of this message?” MacDonald was tall and slender, and his mustache bristled with aristocratic dignity. He cut an impressive figure, but he did not impress Sergeant Joe MacClintock.

  “Sir, the Imperial Army has joined forces with the Boxers,” MacClintock said. “It’s going to take a fair-sized army to cut its way here to Peking.”

  “But…what are we to do?” Helen Gordon spoke with a touch of hysteria. “We’re going to be attacked at any moment!” A cry of alarm went up from the group.

  “Now, we must not give way to our fears,” Lemuel Gordon said quickly. “God hasn’t forgotten us.”

  “But apparently Admiral Seymour has,” Sir Claude snapped. Then he regained his erect bearing. “Well, then, Sergeant, I’ll have your men shown to their quarters. We can use you, that’s certain.”

  “Sir, this is Mr. Amos Stuart,” MacClintock put in quickly, “a correspondent for the New York Journal.” He turned away, speaking to his men as they trooped off in the charge of one of the men.

  Sir Claude stared at Amos in amazement, then laughed shortly. “Well, Mr. Stuart, you may write a story, but I’d like to know how you’re going to get it out of Peking.”

  “I’d like to be of any help I can, sir,” Amos said respectfully.

  “Any military experience?”

  “Well, I served in the war in Cuba with Roosevelt.”

  “Ah? Well, we certainly can use you,” Sir Claude said with a little more warmth. “Come along, we’ll find you a room.”

  An hour later Amos had bathed, changed clothing, and was sitting with Gordon and Sir Claude in a rather ornate room in the American Legation. Just as they settled down to a meal, they were joined by a tall, fine-looking man of about forty.

  “A colleague of yours, Stuart.” Sir Claude smiled and introduced him. “Mr. George Morrison, foreign correspondent for the London Times. He’s also a medical doctor, strangely enough! Mr. Amos Stuart of the New York Journal, George.”

  Morrison shook hands warmly, his keen eyes bright. “Good to see you, Stuart. Just heard about your beastly trip from Sergeant MacClintock. Rather a hair-trigger affair, wot?”

  “Did you get the women, Morrison?” Sir Claude interrupted.

  “Yes, Sir Claude, but it was a close thing!” Morrison shrugged as he caught Amos’s look of inquiry. “I rode out a few days ago to look things over,” he explained, as calm as if he’d decided to go for a ride in Central Park. “I took the route to Fengtai, and the reports are true. Fengtai is about wiped out, and the people are running like rabbits. Nothing to be done, so I started back, but I remembered that Squie
rs’s wife and that young woman named Polly Smith were close by, in a villa in the Western Hills overlooking Fengtai. Thought they might be trapped, so I went by and picked them up.”

  “Good thing you did, George,” Lemuel Gordon said warmly, admiration on his round face. “They’d have been killed out of hand if the Boxers had gotten wind of them.”

  The men ate hungrily, and then Sir Claude and Gordon excused themselves, leaving Amos and Morrison to get better acquainted.

  “I know I’m your competitor, Mr. Morrison,” Amos began, “but anything you can tell me about this business will be appreciated.”

  “Why, certainly! And let it be George and Amos, eh?” Morrison sat back, and the two drank tea as he filled Amos in on the situation. “You’ve got to understand that there are two distinct groups here in the city, and they don’t get along too well. First, there are the missionaries—every brand you can imagine. The poor Chinese can’t make head nor tail out of the differences between them.” Morris allowed himself a small smile before going on. “But they’ve done a magnificent work in China—mission schools, orphanages, hospitals, that sort of thing. Of course, the Boxers charge them with terrible practices—all lies.”

  “What’s the other group?”

  “Oh, the diplomatic corps.” Morrison stood up and, stepping over to a wall, pointed to a map hanging there. “The Legation Quarter is here.”

  Amos rose and joined him, peering at the map.

  “But do you think the Boxers will attack the legations, George?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Amos turned to face Morrison. “Can we hold out?”

  “Hard to say. There are thousands of Boxers armed to the teeth, and only a few hundred of us. Very few fighting men.” He raised one eyebrow and smiled crookedly. “Are you wishing you’d stayed in New York, Amos?”

  “I find this all very stimulating,” Amos said with more confidence than he felt.

  “Ah, well, we’ll do what we can.” Amos heard the door open behind him, and Morrison smiled over his shoulder. “Come in and meet our newest recruit.”

  Amos turned and saw the face of the young woman who had entered, just as Morrison said, “Miss Rose Beaumont, may I present Mr. Amos Stuart of the New York Journal.”

  Amos had been hit once in the stomach with great force. It had taken his breath so completely that he could not speak, not if his life had depended on it.

  This was another such moment. And as he faced Rose, he was unable even to respond to her low greeting. “Yes, Mr. Morrison. Mr. Stuart and I have met before.”

  Amos stood there, staring at Rose, unable to believe his eyes. His mind went totally blank, and he could not make sense out of whatever it was Morrison was saying. He knew that his face had gone pale, and there was an emptiness, a sort of nausea in his stomach as he stared at the woman he’d loved so much.

  Rose! Rose! something cried inside him, but it was a faint thing. Finally Amos managed to nod in acknowledgment. “Yes…we’ve met before, Miss Beaumont and I.”

  14

  THE FISTS OF RIGHTEOUSNESS

  Despair lay over the Peking legations after the message from Admiral Seymour. Streets were deserted and native help grew scarce. Word of new outrages, of destruction of foreign property, or of wanton murders heightened the tension.

  The Boxers invaded the Tartar City, that section of Peking north of the legations, and by night the sky was illuminated by flames from burning sections of the city. The night wind carried the agonized cries of the Christian converts unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the I Ho Ch’uan—Fists of Righteousness.

  Life within the legations was increasingly strained during this waiting time of neither war nor peace. The missionaries were inundated with two thousand Roman Catholic Chinese, plus a number of Methodist converts who needed shelter. This was not done without some heated discussion, and Amos was in the meeting held in one of the large rooms after the evening meal, when the problem was brought up.

  Sir Claude was opposed to accepting the refugees. “They will create a problem,” he insisted angrily. “The compound is already overcrowded, and many undesirables will no doubt be in their number. And how are we to feed and house them?”

  Lemuel Gordon argued mildly that they had no choice in the matter, for to turn them away would be to condemn them to certain death. George Morrison, though not a missionary himself, supported Gordon’s view. The argument swayed back and forth, and strangely enough, it was Amos who provided an answer.

  He was sitting with his back to the wall, acutely conscious of Rose, across the room. Once she turned and caught him watching her, and he flushed, jerking his head away. But when both sides had given their arguments, he spoke up. “I’m not a part of the work here, Sir Claude, but there’s one factor you might want to consider.”

  “And what is that, may I ask?”

  “I think we all believe that this legation is going to be hit by trained soldiers. Who’s going to get this place ready to withstand that attack? We’re so few. But with the help of these people, we could dig trenches, erect bomb shelters, make barricades, and do all the rest of the hard work that defending a fort involves. In my judgment, sir, we need them about as badly as they need us!”

  It was exactly the right thing to say, and over Sir Claude’s protests, the matter was settled. “Sir Claude, you’re the commander-in-chief, and we’ll gladly obey you in all things political,” Lemuel Gordon spoke up. “But in this case, we must do what we think is best.”

  The meeting broke up, and Gordon came over at once to speak to Amos. “Come home with me, Amos. I think we need to make plans for the fortifications.”

  “What about Sir Claude?”

  A glint of humor sparked Gordon’s eyes behind the spectacles. “Well, we’ll do the work and let him take the credit.”

  Amos laughed, liking the man tremendously, and accompanied him to the small house where he lived with his wife, Helen, their infant son, Charles, and Sally, their four-year-old daughter.

  “I brought Mr. Stuart by so we could make some plans, dear,” Gordon explained.

  Helen Gordon, a delicate woman in her mid-twenties, had not attended the meeting, but had stayed home with Charles, who was sick. “I’m glad you’ve come, Mr. Stuart. Sit down and I’ll make some tea.” Now she turned to her husband, worry etched on her thin face. “The baby isn’t doing well, Lemuel. He’s still got a high fever and he won’t eat.”

  “We’ll get Dr. Morrison in to look at him.” Gordon took the child from her, then nodded toward a chair. “Have a seat, Amos…may I call you that? And you must call us Lemuel and Helen.” He sat down in a cane rocker and began rocking the baby, who cried restlessly.

  Amos relaxed, speaking easily with Lemuel while his wife made the tea. Returning with a tray, she served them and sat down to listen, sewing curtains as the men talked about fortifying the legations.

  “The Boxers wouldn’t really dare attack the legations, would they?” Helen asked. “I mean, Admiral Seymour will be here with an army soon.”

  Amos and Gordon exchanged a brief glance, silently agreeing that it might be well to let her think the army would arrive soon, though each of them knew it would be a long, long wait.

  “My dear—” Gordon began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He got to his feet, opened the door, and stepped back with a smile on his face. “Why, Rose, come in!” He turned to Amos. “I understand you and Miss Rose are old friends.”

  Amos stood to greet her, saying evenly, “We knew each other in New York City.”

  Upon seeing Amos, Rose halted abruptly, her cheeks flushed with color. “I–I didn’t know you had company, Reverend Gordon—”

  “Oh, come in, Rose!” Helen called out quickly. “I need a favor from you.”

  “I stopped by to see if you wanted me to sit with the baby for a while.”

  “No, I think the doctor needs to look at him. Would you mind finding Dr. Morrison and asking him to look in on Charlie?”<
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  “Why, of course.”

  “I’d better go with you, Rose,” Gordon said at once. “It’s not safe for you to be out alone. Boxers have been seen inside the legation.”

  “Oh, Lemuel, you’re so tired!” Helen said, then a thought came to her. “Why don’t you join us, Rose, while we visit with Amos, then he can walk you back to Dr. Morrison’s quarters.”

  Amos had no desire at all to spend an hour with the Gordons, especially with Rose present. Rising, he volunteered, “I’ll be glad to get the doctor,” waving away Gordon’s protest that they weren’t through making plans. “We can do that later,” he said. “I’ll look for the doctor…but if he’s not in his room, I may have trouble finding him. May take awhile.”

  “I’ll go back with you, if I may,” Rose said suddenly, and before Amos could think of a way to prevent it, she stepped to the door and waited for him. “I’ll come back and sit with Charlie tomorrow so you can rest, Helen,” she added, then left the room.

  Amos had no choice but to follow her outside.

  She turned and walked toward the canal that ran from Legation Street to the British legation. With the setting of the sun there was a coolness in the air, and the only lights were the yellow flames of lanterns hung along the banks of the canal. This was usually a busy thoroughfare, but since the crisis it was almost deserted after the sun went down.

  Amos walked stiffly beside Rose, unable to speak. He had not spoken to her since the first moment they met. Had, in fact, gone out of his way to avoid her. The first night after their initial meeting, he had lain awake on his bed, tossing and turning for hours. He had thought that the bitterness and anger that had churned in him since Rose dropped him had gone, but he had been wrong—very wrong!

  How can she face me? he had thought as he lay on his cot. She treated me like a dog! And how can she be here, pretending to be a missionary? Nick sure wouldn’t lie to me about what she became, would he?

  A dog howled somewhere in the distance, and Rose said quietly, “He won’t be howling much longer. He’ll be in somebody’s stew.”