Back in the States, when he had been seeking faith, he’d had so many questions he wanted to ask Mariana. Now here she was, and he was afraid. Would he always have things to keep from her? He didn’t want it that way, but there were so many things about himself that he was ashamed of. Yet how could they have a deeper relationship if he held part of himself back? Maybe it was this, not his thirst for adventure, that had always kept him at arm’s length from marriage.
Thus Daniel was rather ambivalent, perhaps even a little relieved, when he was ordered to Mukden. He was also disgusted with himself.
When Daniel finished his ale at the Green Dragon, he bid his associates a good afternoon and left the inn. There was no news to be had there, anyway. He went to the commandant’s office to check on his application to join a military unit in the field, only to be assured that the commandant had his papers and was reviewing them carefully. As usual, nothing happened quickly where Russia was concerned. He should have stayed at the field hospital with Mariana. Interviewing some of the wounded there had inspired an excellent dispatch, called “Heroes in White,” about the medical personnel. But after culling all he could from that venue, he felt he needed a change and decided to look for a battle. It was as good a reason as any—and it kept him from examining his real motivations too closely.
But then the correspondents had been recalled to Mukden. He saw Mariana briefly before leaving and hadn’t seen her since.
Daniel returned to the temple. The hot Manchurian sun was dipping low in the sky. He hoped he was in time for dinner—the priests were a very disciplined lot, and everything was done on a precise schedule.
The brick temple courtyard was an inviting place, with tall shade trees and potted flowering shrubs. The priests walked about, dressed in long robes of crimson and yellow, their pace methodical, deliberate, as if hurry were an unpardonable sin. They nodded welcome to Daniel as he passed. They spoke Mongolian and could not communicate even with the smattering of Chinese Daniel knew. Oddly, they were as foreign in this land as was he.
He entered the spacious but sparsely furnished main hall and headed directly to the dining room. The fragrance of dinner began to waft toward him. Simple, vegetarian fare was served at the temple—always including some variation of rice, with fruit and cheese and the best bread Daniel had ever tasted. He could smell the bread and realized he was hungrier than he thought.
Several priests were also heading in the direction of the dining room. He slowed his steps so as not to rush rudely past them, but it was no small matter to move at their measured pace.
“Honorable master Trent,” called a voice from behind him.
Daniel stopped and turned. It was the Dalai Lama, the head of the monastery, whose name was Hui K’o. He was an ancient man, his bald head and arms covered with scars from some special rites of his sect. He was the only resident of the monastery who spoke English, and had, in fact, welcomed the correspondents in hopes of improving his usage of the language.
“Good evening, Father,” Daniel said respectfully. This man might be of a heathen faith, but his age alone, not to mention the kindness with which he treated the correspondents, demanded respect.
“You will dine with us tonight?”
“If I am not too late.”
“Even the most humble table always has room for a guest.” The Dalai Lama smiled benevolently, then continued to walk with Daniel to the dining room. “I had hoped to see you today, and when I saw you enter our gates, I came as quickly as I could.”
“There’s nothing wrong, is there?”
“I hope not, but any message that arrives at our gates is treated with grave importance.”
“A message?”
“Yes, I have it here. It arrived a few hours ago. I sent a boy into town to look for you, but he was not successful.” The Dalai Lama reached into the folds of his robe and drew out an envelope.
Daniel did not immediately recognize the handwriting, but he knew it was not from his office. A decidedly feminine hand had produced the fine script. He tore open the envelope with a rising sense of apprehension. There were only a few lines to read, and he finished it quickly.
“It is not, as you say, bad news?” asked the Dalai Lama.
“I don’t know,” Daniel said. “A friend of mine who was serving with the Red Cross near Liaoyang has been transferred to Port Arthur. I had hoped to see more of her while I was here. Now . . .” He let his words trail away; he really didn’t know what Mariana’s transfer would mean to their relationship.
“Port Arthur is not a good place for a reunion with old friends,” offered the priest. “Most civilians have evacuated the city with the threat of siege drawing nearer; few are going there except as duty calls them.”
“I know. And her note is over a week old. It must have taken the long way to get here. And with each passing day, the Japanese noose around Port Arthur gets tighter and tighter.”
“I will pray to Buddha for your friend’s safety.”
They arrived at the dining hall and entered. Inside, half a dozen long tables with wooden benches for seats were lined up neatly. They were filling up with priests, but the room was as quiet as a church service. His first meal with the priests had been quite a shock after eating in raucous mess tents with soldiers. Here, order and serenity prevailed.
One table at the front of the room was reserved for the correspondents. A handful of men sat there, and though they were talking among themselves, they were much quieter than they would have been at the Green Dragon—or any other place where that many newspapermen congregated. Daniel joined his associates, but he was distracted and quiet throughout the meal. He couldn’t even enjoy the bread. All he could think of was Mariana’s note and the fact that she was getting away from him again.
Daniel realized, of course, that their duties would command the majority of their time, but he had hoped that they could find some time to spend together. He expected to be out of Mukden soon—with or without the permission of the commandant. He was not a prisoner here, but for the time being it was in his best interests to placate the authorities. He had run afoul of them several times on matters of censorship and wanted to get on better terms in hopes of an assignment with a unit in General Kuropatkin’s army.
Mariana’s note changed everything. Aside from the danger her new assignment placed her in, her presence in Port Arthur—especially once it was under siege—would make her terribly inaccessible. He wondered if he could use some contacts he had in the high command to get her assignment changed. Then he recalled that the particular colonel he knew had been killed at Nanshan.
“I say, old boy, you seem rather out of sorts, today.” The voice came as if from a distance, and Daniel looked across the table to see Carmichael, a British correspondent from the Manchester Gazette.
Daniel glanced around to find the dining room nearly empty. The meal was over, and he had hardly touched his own food.
“Bad news from home?” Carmichael continued.
“Not exactly.” Daniel knew Carmichael better than most of the reporters, and he had mentioned Mariana to him. “It’s that Russian girl I was telling you about.”
“The nurse?”
“Yeah. Looks like she’s on her way to Port Arthur. I don’t know if I’ll see her again soon.”
“Nasty break. Why don’t you just go there?”
“Just as easy as that, huh?”
“Since when do you take the easy way, Daniel? But, heavens! I wouldn’t even suggest taking the risk only for love. If you could get into the port, imagine the exclusive stories the siege of the great Port Arthur might provide.”
“If I could get them out.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, old boy.”
“Bill, your sentimentality touches my heart. Is news all you can think of?”
“What else is there?” Carmichael grinned smugly. “Were you planning to go to your Russian girl anyway?”
“I hadn’t gotten that far in my thinking.�
� Daniel suddenly felt defensive. Why had Carmichael mentioned the news aspect of going to Port Arthur? He didn’t need the possibility of a scoop to cloud his motives; Mariana would see right through him. But he probably would have gone after her anyway. And, once he was there, she couldn’t blame him if he used the opportunity for other purposes as well.
Schmidt, the only other correspondent still at the table, shook his head. “You’re crazy to even think of such an undertaking,” he said. “Etzel was killed in the attempt a couple of months ago.”
“We know about poor Etzel,” said Carmichael, referring to the British correspondent from the Daily Telegraph. “But good reporting requires a few risks.”
“It’s not you, but Trent who will be taking the risks. And I for one wouldn’t want to risk my life for any newspaper.”
“But for love?” Daniel said, the suggestion vindicating him in his motives. “That’s quite a different matter.”
“I never knew you to be such a romantic fool,” Schmidt replied.
Daniel shrugged and rose. “I’m just full of surprises, boys.”
19
Evidently, the Russian government also had a few surprises, for the same day Daniel received permission from the commandant to travel to Newchwang on the northwest coast of the Liaotung Peninsula. During the early days of the war, Newchwang had been the war correspondents’ headquarters, so Daniel knew many of the locals there and had quite a few contacts. It was the best—and perhaps only—available place from which he could obtain passage to Port Arthur.
In March, the last time Daniel had been in Newchwang, the town had been icebound and on a very nervous war alert. Now, with the Japanese encroaching closer and closer, they had even more reason for taut nerves. The town was under martial law, of course, and the port especially was closely watched. A Russian duty destroyer made regular runs between Newchwang and Port Arthur. All civilian traffic was strictly regulated.
Daniel knew from the beginning that he was unlikely to obtain transportation through legitimate means. Locals, mostly fishermen, went out at their own risk, for the coast was heavily patrolled. Both the Russians and the Japanese were likely to shoot first—and forego the formality of asking questions altogether.
Daniel arrived in the evening just before curfew. He reported to the Russian administrator as he was required to do, then sought out the Lotus Inn, where the correspondents had lodged during his previous stay. The place was quiet, and he learned that much of the civilian population had evacuated to Mukden—at least those who could afford it. Many of the poorer residents, and those who were too obstinate to abandon their homes and businesses, had remained.
The bartender at the Lotus, a Siberian Russian named Abegjan, was one of the obstinate ones who also saw a profit to be made from the soldiers. Because his Siberian heritage gave him an Oriental appearance, he could move about easily among the Chinese locals—and even the Japanese, if he chose. Thus he had become a valuable source of information for the correspondents.
“I’m surprised you’re sticking around,” Daniel said as Abegjan set a glass of ale down in front of him.
“As long as Russian soldiers with a thirst and money in their pockets are here in Newchwang,” he replied, “I would be crazy to leave. It’s quiet now, but in a while this place will be filled with off-duty soldiers, and my cash register bell will be singing like a happy bird.” He leaned across the bar. “I think I could even stay after the Japanese take over the town. Yen spends just as good as rubles, eh?”
“I don’t see why you couldn’t pass yourself off as a local. You’ve done it before.”
Abegjan laughed. “So, what brings you back to this foul old town?”
“I’m looking to take a little sail down to Port Arthur,” Daniel replied casually.
“I thought you valued your life better than that.”
“I do. That’s why I’m coming to you. I have no doubt you know the best sailor to do the job.”
“Of course I know the best—but you will have to settle for any old boatman who is willing to take the risk.”
“I’ll make it worth his while.”
“That goes without saying.”
Abegjan scribbled something on a slip of paper and shoved it across the bar at Daniel. “I ask only ten percent of his fee,” said Abegjan. “He is likely to charge as much as a hundred rubles.”
Daniel took the paper and passed back ten rubles. Abegjan took the money with a raised eyebrow, obviously surprised that Daniel sealed the deal without the customary bargaining.
“You must be very anxious to get to Port Arthur,” said the bartender.
“Very.”
“I hope you make it.”
The boatman, Yin Chu, had waited an hour after high tide to take advantage of the outward tidal movements. Daniel would have preferred waiting until after the moon set, but by then the incoming tides would make passage out of the small bay nearly impossible. He glanced over his shoulder nervously as Yin Chu maneuvered the junk into the moonlit bay.
They rowed for about half a mile before hoisting the sail, keeping to the shadows cast by the coastal rocks and cliffs. Then the light winds pushed them along at about three knots. At that rate it would take three days or more to reach the port at the southern tip of the Liaotung Peninsula. Yin Chu claimed he had been cruising this coast all his life, and he knew several out-of-the-way coves where they could put in for rest. And with the full moon, they could sail at night and have a better chance of avoiding discovery by patrols.
But it was a perilous journey under any conditions. The British correspondent, Etzel, had been fired upon and killed even before leaving Chinese waters. The Japanese had a reputation for being far more efficient than either the Chinese or the Russians, so Daniel kept an especially sharp lookout the next day as they passed into Japanese-held waters. Losing their lives was perhaps the worst that could happen, but almost as serious was the chance of being arrested as spies.
Twice they observed patrols but were able to dodge them under cover of darkness. Their luck ran out on their third day. It had rained all night, with strong winds, and they had been forced to seek shelter ashore by negotiating a rocky inlet. By the time the rains stopped just before dawn, Daniel’s patience was at a breaking point. He argued that the overcast skies would provide enough cover for travel and urged Yin Chu to set out immediately. Adding another twenty-five dollars to the boatman’s already exorbitant fee encouraged the Chinese sailor to comply against his better judgment.
Having finally dried out from the rain, they had to plunge waist-deep into the water to tow the boat back out to the open sea. Noticing the rocks that surrounded them, neither man could believe they had traversed the same path safely in the dark the night before. When they climbed back into the boat an hour later, wet and miserable, their spirits were low and their tempers short. They had slept little the previous night because of the rain, and the winds now made sailing hard work. Yin Chu said there was a little cove not far down the coast; they should make for it in order to get some rest. Daniel put his impatience aside and agreed.
Two hours later they still had not come to the cove. It had rained again, a drenching downpour, but that was not nearly as disturbing as what Daniel saw when the storm abated: the coastal hills were dotted with gun emplacements. It seemed only a matter of time before the Japanese spotted the tiny boat in the water.
“Shouldn’t we have reached your cove by now, Yin Chu?” Daniel asked, skittishly scanning the hills.
“I think so,” said the boatman.
“You think so?”
“Yes, I was sure I saw a cove on my trip to Port Arthur.”
Daniel’s hand tightened into a fist. “Please tell me you mean trips to Port Arthur—as in more than one.”
Yin Chu refused to meet Daniel’s eyes as he answered. “Only one time have I been more than a hundred miles from Newchwang.”
“You mean for the last twenty-four hours you’ve been guessing?”
&nbs
p; “I got a good memory, and hear many things from others, too,” Yin Chu defended himself.
“You said you knew this coast like your own backyard,” fumed Daniel.
Yin Chu grinned sheepishly. “I got no backyard, most honorable sir.”
“Why you no account—” Daniel lunged toward the skipper with mutiny in his eyes, but the boat rocked dangerously. Daniel crashed back into his seat, arms and legs flying askew.
All at once artillery fire rent the air.
Yin Chu screamed and hit the deck. The tiller, now unmanned, jerked toward the port, causing the wind to snap at the sail, making it jibe. Both men, still flailing around on the deck, barely missed being knocked overboard by the swinging boom. But the sudden movement of the boom and the strong winds forced the boat to heel over dangerously.
“We’re gonna capsize!” yelled Daniel. He jerked around; the port gunnels of the boat were nearly in the water.
Yin Chu, only his pride injured, grabbed the tiller and brought it around, ordering Daniel to man the mainsheet. In a few moments the junk was out of danger, at least from capsizing. More gunfire, however, indicated their worries were not yet over.
Artillery shells chewed up the water all around them. But Yin Chu tacked, catching a gust of wind that pushed them forward, momentarily out of harm’s way. Hearts pounding, hands shaking, Daniel and Yin Chu sighed with relief. The wind continued to favor them and for once that grueling day they were thankful for it. The treacherous hills receded to a safe distance.
“We did it!” laughed Daniel. “I thought we were goners—”
He stopped as Yin Chu began pointing excitedly toward the stern.
“Oh, no!” groaned Daniel.
A gunboat was steaming after them, and, from the look of the flag it was flying, with its yellow sun bright against a red background, it was not on a routine cruise. The flag was standing out straight as the boat approached on a full head of steam.
Yin Chu pulled in the mainsheet, giving them a little more speed. They must have been doing six knots, but it would never be enough to outrun a gunboat. A deafening roar crashed overhead and, thinking their pursuer had opened fire on them, both men ducked. The winds doubled in force, and the junk shot forward, flying through the water.
The Russians Collection Page 161