A Bright Tomorrow

by Gilbert, Morris

  Finally he said, “Have you heard from Nick or Anna?”

  “Anna writes me sometimes. She’s worried about Nick. Did you know he had been arrested?”

  “No…but I’m not too surprised. He’s in with a hard bunch.”

  The food had made Amos drowsy, and he lay there, relaxed. He found that the bullet had done more than tear his flesh; it had weakened his spirit in a way he could not explain. For one thing, his anger with Rose was gone, and he wondered about that, for it had been with him for a long time. He was very weak, and as he slipped off, he reached out his hand and mumbled, “Rose?”

  “Yes, Amos?” She leaned forward, took his hand and waited, but he was already asleep. When she tried to pull her hand away, he tightened his grip, and she let her hand rest in his. For a long time, she sat there looking down into his face. He was thinner, and the wound had dealt him a hard blow, but she still thought he was fine-looking. Not handsome, but his features were strong and gave the impression of sensitivity. With her free hand, she brushed a lock of his hair back from his forehead.

  He’s a good man, she thought, letting her eyes rest on his face. I can never have him now…but I can always remember that he loved me once. The thought saddened her, and she gave his hand a squeeze, released it, then rose and left the room.

  The siege continued without respite. Sir Claude estimated that the Boxers had fired more than two hundred thousand rounds at the compound, and the result was a steadily mounting casualty list, with thirty-eight fighting men killed by the end of July, and fifty-five more badly wounded.

  With no sign of relief and supplies dwindling, the embattled prisoners found it almost impossible to keep their spirits up. The huge walls surrounding them loomed larger, seeming to close in each day.

  “It’s like–like being in a big rat trap!” said Willie Summers, who had come in from his post to eat with Amos. “If we could just get a good shot at those…,” he broke off abruptly, glancing at Rose Beaumont, who appeared with a bowl of soup.

  She put the bowl in front of him, smiled, and said with a glint of humor in her greenish eyes, “Finest Mongol pony soup in town, Willie.”

  Summers looked down at the mixture and shook his head in disgust. “If anyone had ever told me I’d be eatin’ pony soup…”

  Amos was amused at the young marine. “Better than bird’s nest soup,” he commented, lowering one eyelid in a sly wink at Rose.

  Summers stared at Amos, jaw dropping. “Bird’s nest?” he demanded. “Well, if that ain’t just like these Chinamen!” Nevertheless, he ate his soup with gusto, then shoved back from the table and regarded Amos. “When you comin’ back to work?” he asked. “Seems like you been soldierin’ on us long enough.”

  “We heroes have to take care of ourselves, Willie.” Amos grinned, for he had learned to make light of his accomplishment. He had healed rather slowly, for the bullet had not gone squarely in, but had turned, ripping a gaping tunnel in his side and back. For the first week, every movement had been pure agony, but when the flesh began to knit, he could move about with some degree of ease…as long as he didn’t make any abrupt motions.

  The days passed slowly, but even in the midst of constant crisis, Amos was undergoing some sort of metamorphosis that puzzled him. For long hours he lay on his cot with nothing to do but think. He could sleep only so many hours, and even at night he lay silently pondering what was happening to him. By nature an introspective man, he was aware that something unusual was going on inside. Even that mystified him, for he had been a man of the mind, assuming that only mystics or people with great religious inclinations, like his mother, were moved in the “spirit.”

  In his enforced idleness, Amos came to understand something that he would never have known if his busy life had not been brought to an abrupt halt. Sorting out the skeins of his history, he began to realize that his restlessness for the past few years was rooted in a kind of inner emptiness. This came as a shock, and at first he shook off the idea. But as he pondered the matter, he realized it was true.

  “A man has to have something more than work,” he mused. “He can fill his life up with things, but those things don’t ever seem to be enough. Guess that’s why I’ve been chasing all over the world…looking for something over the next hill.”

  Finally he realized that Rose was at the core of his problem, and it didn’t take him long to conclude that the bitterness spawned by her betrayal had been a cancer eating away at his spirit. For long hours, he thought of the early days when he’d fallen in love with her and of the wonder of that love. Then came the war…and nothing in the war had been more devastating than his rejection by Rose.

  But she wasn’t all of it. He had never forgotten the times when God had seemed to reach out and touch him. He thought again of that time when he had asked God for a job and had been given one instantly! He thought of his mother, how she’d faced every difficulty with a serenity that was baffling to him.

  And he thought of Faye O’Dell, whose bones now lay in a shallow grave in Cuba. Despite Rose’s words, he still grieved over the lad.

  And now, sitting at the table as Rose and Willie bantered with each other, he thought he saw in Willie some of the same vulnerability he’d seen in O’Dell. He had never inquired into the boy’s belief about God, and when he brought his thoughts back to the present, his attention sharpened as he heard the two speaking of religion.

  “Guess I’ll go to heaven,” Willie was saying. “I ain’t done lots of bad stuff.”

  Rose shook her head slightly. “That’s not the way to get to heaven, Willie. Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life. No man cometh unto the Father, but by me.’ That’s why Jesus died—to save sinners. And we’re all sinners, Willie.”

  “But…some are worse than others!”

  “Yes, that’s true, but it’s not how bad our particular sins are. As a matter of fact, some of the things we think are the very worst sins may not be as bad in God’s eyes as some of the little sins,” Rose said pensively. “We think it’s terrible to kill a person…and it is, of course. But I’ve known people who were so cruel to their family for years that God must have wept. Yet they were in good standing with man. No, we’re all disobedient to God, and the only way to get back in good standing with him is to have our sins forgiven.”

  Willie shook his head. “Miss Rose, I’m just dumb, I guess. But I can’t see how a man dying two thousand years ago can make me good.”

  Amos nodded. “I’ve wondered about that myself,” he murmured and was aware that Rose turned her eyes on him at once.

  “I know it’s difficult to understand,” she said earnestly. She hesitated, then asked, “Did you know that the Jews sacrificed a lamb to God? Well, the Book of Hebrews says it’s impossible for the blood of animals to take away sin.”

  “Why’d they do it, then?” Willie demanded. He was leaning forward, his eyes riveted on Rose.

  “Because God commanded them to. But for hundreds of years, with thousands of lambs slain, not one sin was ever washed away by the blood of those animals. But all the prophets God sent kept telling the Jews to hope, that one day a Messiah would come, One who would save his people. And in the Gospel of John, the first chapter, we learn that all those prophecies came true. ‘The next day,’” she recited with glowing eyes, “‘John seeth Jesus coming unto him, and saith, Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world.’ And that’s what Jesus did—he took away the sin of the world.”

  “But why do the preachers talk about hell if Jesus took away sin?” A look of bewilderment crossed Willie’s face. He had been afraid for days, not of death so much as the shadow that lay beyond death. He had admired the calm assurance of Rose Beaumont and the other missionaries and longed for that same peace.

  “Jesus said one time, ‘Ye will not come unto me that ye might have life.’ Come to Jesus—that’s what you have to do, Willie,” Rose explained. “It was all I could do. I was so deep in sin I knew I could never make things
right. I could only cry out to Jesus…and the instant I did, he came into my heart. Ever since that moment, I’ve had peace.”

  Willie looked down at the table, his face drawn. His lips were trembling, and he was embarrassed by his display of emotion.

  But Rose had seen this happen many times. She drew her chair close to his and began to tell him how to find Christ. After a brief time, Amos heard her ask, “Would you like to be saved, Willie? To know that you’re going to heaven when you die?”

  Willie’s shoulders were tense, but he nodded his head.

  “Then pray in your heart. God wants to save you. Just ask him to as I pray.”

  Amos was astonished. He sat there staring at the two. And then he became aware that his own hands were trembling and his heart was beating faster. He felt short of breath, and then the impulse struck him to do exactly what Willie seemed to be doing—he wanted to call on God!

  Instantly it was clear that this was the root of his troubled spirit. He knew that for years he’d been running from God. And he had the awful feeling that if he didn’t call out to God now, he would never be able to do so. It was, somehow, his last chance!

  Amos resisted the overwhelming sense of urgency…or he tried to, but he could not control his trembling, and as Rose kept on mentioning Jesus, the very sound of that name brought tears to his eyes.

  Suddenly he knew that this was not merely a matter of life or death—this was for all time, for eternity. A sense of fear that he might miss out on the greatest of all things swept over him, and he began to pray. It was not a neat, orderly prayer, but a desperate cry, as from a man going down for the last time.

  Amos never knew how long he sat there, for he lost all sense of time and place. But as he prayed, a strange sensation of peace began to grow inside him. At first it was a very tiny thing—buried in his doubts and fears—but somehow it swelled until it filled his whole soul.

  He looked up, his eyes filled with tears, to find Rose looking at him, and he whispered, “I–I just asked God to save me!”

  Willie’s cheeks were damp with tears. “Me, too, Amos!”

  Rose put out her hands, and each of the men grasped them as she began to praise God. She began quietly enough, but soon the joy that rose up in her could not be contained. Other men, hearing her, came to gaze at the three. Before long, the small dining room was full, and Rose began to tell them all what had happened. “Amos, are you saved?” she asked unexpectedly. “Has Jesus come to your heart?”

  Amos looked around at the curious faces and smiled. He nodded and his voice was full of the joy that kept welling up in him in great waves.

  “Yes…I called on God right here at this table. I–I don’t know how it happened, but I do know that everything in this world is different!” He turned to Rose and lowered his voice as he added for her ears alone, “Everything is different, all new and fresh!”

  Rose stared at Amos, knowing that he was no longer the man he had been. There was a gentleness in his eyes that had been missing, and she knew that he was saying more than his words implied. She hoped that soon he would be coming to her as a man comes to a woman.

  Amos did come to Rose, but not until several days had gone by. Not that he kept his distance, for the two of them had long talks as she taught him—along with Willie Summers—how to study the Bible. As word spread, the little group grew to ten, then fifteen.

  Still, Amos said nothing personal to her, and Rose reluctantly put away her expectations.

  They were both shocked, along with the rest of the compound, when Sir Claude called the leaders together and issued a grave warning. “We must attack the Boxers,” he said. His face was thin and etched with the pressure of the siege. “If we do not, they will be over the walls by tomorrow. We must prove that we are still a fighting force.”

  “It must be done,” Dr. Morrison agreed, “and at once!”

  That night seventy-five men gathered to make the attack, and Captain Meyers, an Englishman who had been given the command, faced them. “This is a desperate enterprise. We must drive the Boxers back if it costs us every man in the attempt. Now…follow me!”

  Amos had joined the group, despite warnings from both Rose and Dr. Morrison. He himself knew his decision was because of Willie, for the two had grown very close. Now as the men moved forward, he whispered, “Stay close, Willie.”

  “Sure, Amos!”

  They hit the Boxers with all they had, taking them off guard, and the world seemed to be filled with explosions and gunfire.

  Amos fired and reloaded as rapidly as he could and was glad to hear the captain cry out, “That’s it, men! Now, back over the wall!”

  Amos and Willie were among the last to retreat, and they had almost reached the wall when a blast of machine gun fire shattered the night.

  “Duck, Willie!” Amos yelled, but even as he did so, he saw his friend’s figure driven backward by the force of the bullets. “Willie!” he called again, and as the slugs flew around him, Amos dropped to the ground beside the boy. Amos didn’t even hear Captain Meyers ordering the men to get the machine gunner, for he was gently holding Willie’s head.

  Blood was running from the young marine’s mouth, and Amos could see that his friend’s body had taken three or four slugs. There was no hope, he saw, and he thought Willie was already dead.

  But the young man opened his eyes and whispered faintly, “Amos…good thing…I got saved—”

  “Willie! Willie!” Amos moaned.

  “It’s okay, Amos.” The eyes opened wide and a smile curved the boy’s bloody lips. “I’ll see Jesus first. Don’t ever…forget how we got…saved—”

  Then his body jerked slightly, his eyelids closed, and Willie Summers died in Amos’s arms.

  At the funeral the next morning, Amos could barely hold back the tears as Lemuel Gordon spoke briefly. He heard little of the sermon and afterward walked the streets, thinking of many things. When darkness came, he found himself seeking the comfort of familiar faces. Rose was startled when Amos appeared at her door. “Come and walk with me, Rose,” he said, and something about him compelled her to agree.

  He led her to the same bridge where they’d talked once before, and again they leaned on the rail, peering down at the rippling water. For several minutes he did not speak, and Rose wondered what he was thinking, why he’d brought her here.

  Then he turned and cupped her shoulders in his hands. His eyes were filled with pain, yet there was a quiet joy in him, too. “Rose, I love you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  “Amos—!”

  “No, don’t talk, just listen,” he said swiftly. “The past is over…for both of us. Everything starts all new and shiny when we come under the blood…that’s what you taught me. So we’re both new. Nothing in the past counts.”

  She tried to speak, but he cut off her protest in the simplest way possible—with a kiss. He drew her close and lowered his lips to hers, and it was as if nothing else existed for either of them. She stopped struggling and returned his kiss, and in his arms, all her doubts fell away.

  When Amos lifted his head, his eyes were shining. “Rose, I can’t lose you again. Will you marry me?”

  “Yes! Oh, yes, Amos!”

  A frog on the bank below suddenly announced his presence with a deep cry, then plunged into the canal, sending circles over the face of the dark water…but neither of the two on the bridge heard him.

  Two days afterward General Alfred Gaselee, in charge of the relief expedition, led his troops into the city. He came clattering in on a black charger, swung to the ground, and was met by Lady Claude MacDonald, who had by some miracle donned a lace-trimmed gown and broad-brimmed hat for the occasion.

  Looking as if she had just come from a garden party, Lady MacDonald offered her hand, saying graciously, “General Gaselee, how good of you to come—!”

  The legation was relieved—and the Boxer Rebellion was over.

  Part 3

  1905–1908

  16

&n
bsp; DEATH IN THE HILLS

  Amos and Rose disembarked from the train at Fort Smith just after dawn on a Wednesday in October of the year 1905. The steam engine had bulled its way through heavy snows for much of the journey from New York, but Amos was relieved to see that only white patches of old snow marked the hills that shouldered their way up around the town.

  “I need to rent a rig for a few days,” he told the stationmaster, then added, “unless there’s a stage going to Mountain View.”

  “Nope, nothing that way.” The grizzled fellow shook his head. “You can rent a rig right across the street—Parsons’ Stables. Tell him Fred Hoskins sent you. He’ll give you good rates.” He peered over his steel-rimmed glasses, sizing Amos up. “You from the city?”

  “Am now. But I grew up in Stone County.”

  “Ho! You tell Parsons that! He’s an honest man, but he does favor his own folks.”

  An hour later Amos was driving a pair of spirited grays out of Fort Smith. “I’m glad you got a covered carriage, Amos,” Rose said, glancing over her shoulder at the children who were playing in the back.

  As usual, it was Maury who was making up games and demanding she be allowed to change the rules. At three, she was a year younger than Jerry and had come into the world with a crown of flaming red hair and a temper to match. Jerry was sitting patiently, allowing Maury to have her way. He was dark, with his mother’s crow-black hair and green eyes. Seeing her look around, he asked, “How long will it take to get to Grandma’s?”

  “A long time,” Amos spoke up. “If you get sleepy, wrap up in the blankets and take a nice nap.”

  Both children spoke at the same time—Maury’s defiant “I’m not going to take an ol’ nap!” and Jerry’s cheerful “Sure, Daddy.”