Just then they came to one of the small bridges that arched the canal, and she said abruptly, “Amos, I have to talk to you.” Without looking to see if he was following, she turned and walked up the wooden bridge, then leaned on the waist-high rail and stared down at the water.
Amos came to stand beside her, saying nothing, curious as to what she might have on her mind.
“It was a shock when I walked into the office and saw you, Amos,” she said quietly. She waited for him to answer, but when he did not reply, she added simply, “I wanted to turn and run away.”
“Why?” Amos asked harshly.
“Because of the shameful way I treated you, of course.” Rose was wearing a simple dark green dress, cut in the Chinese fashion. She wore her raven hair up, and her green eyes were sober as she turned to face him. “I knew that sooner or later I’d have to face you. Amos, I’m so sorry about the way I behaved. Can you ever forgive me?”
Amos was torn. His first inclination was to say, “Yes, I forgive you, Rose!” She looked so small standing there beside him, so fragile and as beautiful as ever. He remembered the times he’d spent with her—the soft kisses, the warm light in her eyes as she murmured to him.
But he had had long months to hate her, too, and now the old bitterness welled up inside him. “Why did you do it?” he demanded. “Couldn’t you have waited just a few months? Was what you felt for me so weak it wouldn’t even last that long?” He saw her flinch as the words cut deep, and he took a perverse satisfaction out of it. Let her hurt a little!
Rose received his reprimand without reply, her lips quivering, the pain in her eyes betraying her vulnerability. When he had finished, she said, “I’m guilty of all you say, Amos. I–I know you can’t believe this…but even when I was moving away from you and from all that was right, there was something in me that told me not to do it.”
As she spoke, Rose felt tears beginning to burn her eyes and willed them away, determined that Amos would not see her cry. Turning back toward the rail, she put her hands on it and stared down into the depths of the murky green water. “I suppose you know what happened to me…what I became?”
“Yes, I heard.”
Rose thought she could hear a note of sadness, of regret in his voice, but could not be sure. “What you heard was true, Amos. All of it.”
Fireflies had begun to gather on the bank of the canal. Stuart watched them as they blinked—miniature amber torches dotting the gathering darkness. The night birds were out now, sweeping and wheeling. Something in the sadness of their plaintive cry struck a responsive note in him, and he said, “It…doesn’t matter now.”
“No, Amos, it doesn’t matter.” Rose’s voice was almost a whisper. “God has forgiven me…but I’ll never marry.”
Amos blinked in surprise. “Why not, Rose?”
She bowed her head for a moment, then turned to look into his eyes. “It would be asking too much of a man to forget what…I’ve been.” As she spoke, it seemed to Amos that she was shutting some sort of a door, and it brought a curious lonely feeling to him.
“Some men could forget.”
“No. No man’s that good.” Rose shook her head. Then she smiled. “But I’m happy, Amos. Can I tell you why?”
“Yes.”
As Rose spoke, confirming his worst suspicions, then telling how she’d been saved by a miracle, Amos knew she was telling the truth. She was happy! “What brought you here?” he asked when she had finished.
“Oh, one of the missionaries came through New York, preaching about the need for missionaries in China. God spoke to me…and here I am.”
Amos stared at her, unable to comprehend her joy. He waved his hand toward the city walls. “The Boxers will be hitting that wall soon. I don’t think there’s much chance for any of us. You came to an odd place to find happiness.”
“Happiness isn’t a place,” Rose replied. Her lips curved in a faint smile, and she had no idea how provocative that gesture was to the man who stood there watching her. “Happiness is when everything is going right for you in the world. But when things start going wrong—” She touched her breast. “Joy in the heart makes the difference. Joy is from God, Amos. It’s one of the fruits of his Spirit. And the joy he gives isn’t tied to circumstances. A man or woman can lose everything—health, family, possessions, even life itself—but a believer can’t lose her joy.”
“I guess I don’t understand.” Amos felt uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life. Suddenly he found himself telling Rose about Faye O’Dell, and when the story was finished, he shook his head sadly. “He died without knowing God, Rose. I…wish he hadn’t!”
Rose sensed Amos’s heartache. She stood there, praying for wisdom before she answered him. “We can never know about things like that, Amos. All God requires is a hungry heart and a cry. That can happen in a moment. Your friend…isn’t it possible he might have cried out to God at the end?”
“Y–yes, I suppose so,” Amos faltered. It was a new thought for him, and he stood there in the darkness, his face twisted with the pain of the old memory. “I hope you’re right, Rose,” he muttered, then brightened. “I’m sorry about what I said. And I’m glad you’re happy, Rose.”
“Thank you, Amos.” With an impulsive gesture, she touched his hand. “You’re right about our situation. If God doesn’t perform a miracle, we’ll all die in this place.” She was quiet and calm and lovely as she gazed steadily up at him. “I’m praying you’ll find God here, Amos.” Then she turned, saying briskly, “Let’s go find Dr. Morrison.”
Amos followed her off the arching bridge and alongside the canal, where the yellow lanterns made ripples of amber light in the dark water.
For the next three weeks, the missionaries and the diplomats hungered for knowledge of what was happening outside the city. They knew nothing of the struggles Seymour was having to pull an army together. They all nourished a certain optimism, none of them able to believe they would be left to fend for themselves.
Then on June 19, this optimism was shattered.
At 5:00 P.M. scarlet envelopes were delivered to each of the foreign ministers. The notes were identical: “Within twenty-four hours, Your Excellency, accompanied by the legation guards, who must be kept under proper control, will proceed to Tientsin in order to prevent any unforeseen calamity.”
Morrison stared at the note, which had been handed to him by one of the diplomats, then showed it to Amos. “That’s it, I’m afraid,” he said tonelessly. “I hope we’ve made our fortifications strong.”
There was no thought of leaving Peking. If to stay meant massacre, to leave the compound meant destruction. At once activity in the legations increased. A detachment of marines aided in the evacuation of the Methodist compound. Seventy-one missionaries and a large number of converts, including 124 Chinese schoolgirls, were brought into the quarter and lodged in the small chapel of the British legation.
The British compound, commanding a good field of fire and not dominated by the Tatar Wall, had been selected as the key defensive position. Crowded into it were some nine hundred persons, plus a large number of ponies, mules and sheep, and one cow—all this in three acres of land with a normal population of sixty people.
It was a frantic scene. Carts containing household furniture jammed into the area, and peasants swarmed about, unloading their belongings. One building was assigned to the French, another to the Russians, a third to the Imperial Customs. A group of men huddled over maps and planned strategy. Dr. Morrison made space on the tile floor for his mattress, heaping his supply of books nearby.
Then as darkness fell, heavy firing commenced in the east, near the Austrian legation. Amos was standing beside Sergeant MacClintock, and the two of them turned to face the sound of the guns.
“Well, looks like the siege of Peking has begun,” the marine remarked. “God help us all!”
Amos was thinking about the sheet of paper that Sir Claude had shown him earlier. This sheet listed the
total strength of the legation guards. With his reporter’s sure memory, he could see the list clearly:
Officers Men
American 3 53
British 3 79
German 1 51
Austrian 7 30
Russian 2 79
French 2 45
Italian 1 28
Japanese 1 24
He thought of the masses of enemy troops, some of them well armed, that now ringed the city, and said with a wry smile, “God will have to do it, Joe. Otherwise, we don’t have a prayer!”
The siege seemed to last forever, though by actual count, only five weeks had passed by the time the fighting finally ended. Each day life had grown more oppressive. Food was in short supply, sanitation impossible, privacy forgotten. To make matters worse, the defenders never got a clear look at their attackers, hidden in the streets and buildings of the city. Rooftops and trees limited the view from the legations to less than one hundred yards, and this blindness increased the sense of isolation.
Casualties had mounted steadily as machine gun and rifle fire ripped into the legations. It was on a hot afternoon in July that Amos—on guard with the marines—was suddenly aware of something happening down the street.
MacClintock had seen it too, and whispered, “Stay alert now. They’ll be coming soon.”
“Maybe they won’t charge,” Willie Summers offered hopefully. “Maybe they’ll pull back.” He was thinking of home and secretly wishing he were there.
Sir Claude MacDonald came hurrying forward. “Look…the Boxers are wheeling an artillery piece into place!”
MacClintock shook his head. “We’re in trouble, Stuart. We’ve got nothing that can reach that gun. It’s one of them new Krupp cannons!” The cannon barked and over to the right, a section of the wall blew up. “Keep your heads down!” MacClintock ordered.
The defenders could do no more than crouch in the rubble as the rapid-fire cannon spoke again and again.
MacClintock looked at his men, his face mask-like. “That gun’s got to be knocked out. I’m goin’…but nobody has to go with me.” He threw himself over the wall without hesitation, and Amos followed. Even as he went over the wall, he was thinking, Why am I doing this? He noted that Willie Summers, his face pale as paper, was one of the three marines who had come tumbling after him. He’s as scared as I am, Amos thought.
The five men dodged into an alley. “We’ll get on top of that building—see?” MacClintock said. “We can pick those gunners off from there.”
“But they’ll just start again when we pull back, Joe,” Amos argued.
“Yeah, so I’m going to spike the cannon! Now, you birds get into position. When you knock the gunners out, I’ll go fix that cannon so them Boxers can’t ever use it.”
Amos shook his head. “You can’t make it! There’s lots of riflemen supporting that gun. They’ll cut you down!”
“You knock them off if they try it, Stuart.” MacClintock grinned at Willie, who was staring at him. “Summers, I appoint you corporal,” he said. “You’re in command…now get going!”
Summers swallowed, but he drew himself up proudly. “Come on, let’s get those jokers!”
Amos and the marines scrambled to the roof of the building the sergeant had mentioned and lay down flat. “Gosh!” Summers breathed. “Sarge was right…look at that!”
Looking down, Amos saw that they commanded a clear view of the cannon crew, who had no idea they were in danger.
“Now, get the crew, then keep your eyes open,” Summers ordered. “Them Boxers will pop up to get a shot at Sarge! I’ll take the officer. Bibb, you take the guy with the red scarf—” He went on identifying the enemy soldiers. “We’ll all fire on my signal. Don’t miss! When the five soldiers go down, I’m hoping them Boxers will think the gods have turned against them. All right, aim…fire!”
Amos drew a bead on the chest of one of the Chinese soldiers, and at the signal, pulled the trigger. It was almost mystical—or so it must have seemed to the onlooking Boxers—for every member of the crew fell to the ground, either dead or wounded.
“There goes Sergeant MacClintock!” Summers yelped. “Now…get them Boxers!”
Amos fired as rapidly as he could find a target, and the effectiveness of the marines’ fire drove the Boxers from the scene, leaving twenty of their men on the ground. Meanwhile, MacClintock made a wild dash for the cannon. They saw him attach something to it, then light a match and touch it to a fuse. He whirled and was halfway back to safety when a bullet from an unseen sharpshooter knocked him down. At the same instant, the explosive he’d fixed to the cannon went off with a tremendous roar.
“Willie…cover me!” Amos yelled.
He threw down his gun, darted down the stairs, then turned into the open field. As the rifles of the marines chattered, two more Boxers fell from the branches of a tree.
Reaching MacClintock, Amos was relieved to see that the sergeant was alive. He had a bloody thigh, but he was conscious. “Come on, Joe, climb aboard!”
Amos yanked the marine to his feet, bent and lifted him to his shoulders, then began to run. MacClintock was a heavy man, but Amos wasn’t aware of the extra weight. His feet struck the dust, sending up tiny puffs. Near his head, like bees humming was the whine of bullets. The wall was only ten feet away. He kept on, spurred by the thought of safety. “He got him! He got him!” He could hear the marines clearly.
Then he was at the wall…but even as he reached it, a giant fist struck him a tremendous blow in the side. Amos pitched forward, pushing MacClintock to the ground, then crawled in front and grabbed the sergeant’s wrists. “Come on, Joe!” he grunted, and with one final lunge, the two cleared the distance.
“You hit, Amos?”
Looking up, Stuart saw Willie Summers’s pale face, his freckles standing out like a badge.
“He got it in the back,” MacClintock said in a thin voice. “Better get both of us out of here.”
At that moment, reinforcements arrived—twenty Italian guards. The officer took one look at the two wounded men and snapped, “Get them to the hospital. We’ll take care of things here.” His dark eyes gleamed, and he nodded, “We saw it all. There’ll be a medal for both of you.”
Amos felt himself losing consciousness, the pain razor-sharp. He forced his eyes open and studied the officer, then whispered something.
“What did he say?” the officer asked.
Willie Summers grinned. “He said he’d rather have a ticket to the good old U.S. of A!”
Amos drifted off into a warm oblivion, unaware of his jolting ride to the field hospital, where Dr. Morrison dug the slug out of his side. Nor did he know Rose when she bathed his face and sat beside him all through the night.
15
HOME AT LAST!
Amos awakened slowly, reluctantly coming out of a deep sleep. His mouth had a sour taste, and when he tried to lick his lips, they felt like dry paper. A sudden desire for water overtook him, and when he opened his eyes, his surroundings swam into focus.
He was lying on a single cot in a room with only one window through which he could see no more than an inky blackness. A single coal oil lamp, turned low, penetrated the darkness, and when he turned his head, he squinted, making out the forms of several men in cots like his own.
Next to his bed was a small table. Seeing a glass there, his thirst became acute. He rolled over on his side, but as he reached for the glass, pain exploded in his side like a bomb. Involuntarily, he expelled a grunt of pain and fell back, gritting his teeth until the wave of agony subsided.
“Amos…are you awake?”
The whisper was followed by a cool hand on his brow, and he opened his eyes again to see Rose bending over his cot. She was wearing a white dress and had appeared so suddenly and in such a spectral light that, for one confused moment, Amos thought he was dead. Then the touch of her hand reassured him, and he nodded. It took an effort to speak, but he mumbled, “Drink…!”
Picking up the glass, Rose
poured some water into it, then carefully supporting his head, put the glass to his lips. “Be careful,” she warned. He gulped thirstily, draining the glass, and when she refilled it, he drank that as well. “How do you feel?”
“Rotten.” Amos found, however, that the water had lubricated his mouth sufficiently for speech. Although his head was pounding and his right side throbbed with every movement, he began to struggle to sit up. Rose helped him into a sitting position, and he stared at her from hollow eyes. “I remember getting hit,” he said. “How long have I been out?”
“Just since yesterday,” Rose replied. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes!”
She smiled at the urgency in his tone. “That’s a good sign. I’ll go get you something to eat.” She left the room, and he lay there quietly until she returned with a tray. “This is still warm,” she said, handing him a bowl. “Do you need me to feed you?”
“No, I can do it.” He took the bowl and was astonished to find how hungry he was. As he ate, he asked, “No sign of the relief force, I take it?”
“Not yet.”
She waited until he was finished, then said, “Breakfast will be in a couple of hours, then you can have something else. I did find a little coffee.” She handed him the cup. “Everyone is talking about what a heroic thing you did, Amos, saving Sergeant MacClintock’s life.” He shrugged and sipped his coffee, and she realized her praise had made him uncomfortable. “The sergeant is in the cot on the end.”
“How is he?”
“Oh, not bad. Both of you were lucky, the doctor said. No bones hit. You’ll be up and around in a week.”
Amos drank the coffee slowly, savoring the strong flavor. Except for the sound of heavy breathing, the room was silent. From the small window came a sound of a gun firing, distant and muffled. Rose sat beside him, watching him, and he wondered how long she’d been in the room. The light from the lamp gave her skin a mellow glow and sculpted the planes of her face, giving an oriental cast to her eyes, deep in the sockets. She had always been quiet, Amos thought, and now he saw how attractive and reassuring that quality was. He disliked talkative women, those who couldn’t bear a single instant of silence, and there was something pleasant about the way she just sat there, letting time run on.
A Bright Tomorrow Page 17