During the doctor’s absence, Robbie had had his own share of problems in Wukiang. As darkness had enveloped the village, an unseen arsonist had set fire to Chang’s home. Though no one was hurt, it took some time to quell the blaze, and then not until the small place had been destroyed. Robbie reached the mission with the homeless Chang family just as Wallace returned. Shan-fei and Miss Trumbull prepared beds for the family in the school, but they were still in the midst of this when old Li ran into the compound.
“Tai-fu, ching-kao!” he cried, pounding on the residence door.
Wallace swung the door open. The look on his face was tense, expectant of more trouble.
“Li hsien-sheng, what is it?”
“Tai-fu, you must believe me when I say I do not know how this began,” said Li frantically. “I am not one of you, but I hate you no longer.”
“I know that, Li. But what is the matter?”
“They are gathering outside the village,” answered Li, his face panic-stricken. “Some are from Wukiang, some from Lungsi, and the other villages. Some I have never seen before. Evil men. They are very angry and are trying to stir the people into a riot. There is talk of burning the mission. They say you are a devil, that you charmed the people in Lungsi today into dispersing. Even one or two of your own members are among them, declaring that they were indeed bewitched by you. They all cry that the mission must be destroyed before all Chinese are defiled. They speak nothing but lies, but will not listen to reason.”
“How many are there, Li?” asked Robbie, who had come up behind Wallace.
“Seventy-five, possibly a hundred when I left,” replied Li. “But their numbers are growing. I will stay and help you.”
“No, Li,” said Wallace. “Thank you. But it is best you do not become involved in this way. Go to your home. God will protect us.”
Wallace paused, then added, “There is perhaps one thing you can do.”
“Whatever I am able.”
“Could you shelter the Changs until this is all over, and my granddaughter also? The fewer at the mission right now, I believe, the better.”
“I would be most happy to assist,” answered Li. “But they must come quickly, for the crowd may come at any time.”
Ying Nien, now a fully trained pastor himself, went with Li’s party to help with arrangements there, while Wallace gathered the remaining mission family, including Robbie, Miss Trumbull, and Shan-fei, together in the sanctuary of the chapel.
“What are we going to do?” asked Robbie.
“We came to China that God might be glorified,” answered Wallace. “Our buildings, even our lives, are infinitesimal in the heavenly scheme of things. We have all known the moment may come when we would be called to the ultimate sacrifice. Our only purpose is to bring glory to God, and to trust our lives into His care.”
He paused, then reached out his two hands, taking his wife’s hand in one of his, and laying the other on Robbie’s left shoulder. They in turn reached out to take Miss Trumbull’s hands, and following Wallace’s lead, the small band sank to their knees on the chapel floor.
Wallace quietly cleared his throat, then began to sing in his deep baritone voice, a song they all knew as well as any scripture or liturgy. But suddenly the words, grown somewhat dull over the years with repetition, struck them with new and meaningful impact. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow . . .”
The others joined him with fervent voices, and though there were only four of them gathered together as one, the melodious tones carried out into the heavy night air.
———
On a fallow rice field a mile from the village, a few horses impatiently stamped in the soft dirt.
Wang peered through the darkness, then nodded his head with approval as he spied the torches bobbing up and down in the distance. By their elevation he gathered they had now reached the bridge, and by their numbers he guessed that his men had been successful in rousing a good number of the villagers. There must be a hundred or more crossing the river, he thought with wicked satisfaction. He could almost hear the creaking of the ancient timbers.
He turned to his companion. “You are certain they will not abandon the mission?”
“I tells you, guv’nor,” replied a self-satisfied voice, “that mission is everything to the blokes. I done my job good. I knows what I’m talkin’ about. They won’t leave for nothin’.”
“For nothing . . . ?”
“‘Cept to help a friend, and I found out Taggart’s got just such a friend, a Chinaman, no less—”
“Watch what you say, you scum of a sailor!” warned Wang.
“‘Course there are Chinamen—that is, Chinese—and there are Chinese. And they ain’t all as noble as yersel’, Wang.” The uneasy rider bowed with a mocking smirk on his face. “This one’ll do fine fer what we wants.”
“Taggart must be separated from the mission,” said Wang. “Not only will that weaken the mission against our mob, but it will also make Taggart all the more vulnerable.”
“He were alone ten years ago in the monastery,” observed the other.
“I was too overconfident then. This time I will be prepared!”
“Let’s jist hope so.”
“You better hope you have done your job!”
Pike merely snorted his disdain for Wang’s doubt. He knew he had done his part perfectly. During his short stay at the mission he had become fully apprised with the layout of the place, and had learned the names of those who might prove useful to them such as this Chinaman, Kuo-hwa. But the most important thing he had discovered was that Robbie had changed. Religion had made the lad gentle as a dove. Why, he had even overheard the Reverend and Robbie talking about loving their enemies, and not using fists to fight their battles.
The fools! Prayers and platitudes were Robbie’s stock in trade now, and Pike was more confident than ever that when Wang went after him, he’d not so much as raise a finger, much less a fist, to defend himself. That might take some of the sport out of his death, it was true. But by now it was no longer a matter of enjoyment for either Pike or Wang—it was sheer, undefiled revenge.
Wang glanced about again, only this time in the opposite direction from the torches.
“Where the devil is Pien?” he asked angrily. “I told him exactly where to be tonight!”
“Probably off gettin’ hissel’ drunk. I don’t know why ye keeps that dullard around.”
“I’ll kill him if he fails me tonight!”
“Ye should ’ave killed him long ago,” muttered Pike. “I never did trust the blag’ard!”
64
The Passing of the Torch
Robbie could not fully understand the peace that had stolen over him as he and the other missionaries knelt in the tightly knit circle praising and worshiping God.
He knew it was against his nature to sit still when external circumstances and internal emotions cried out for action. Yet even as he heard the noise of the inflamed mob drawing near the mission, he realized the most potent action possible was the one he was now performing. As the four of them prayed, each knew this was no battle against flesh and blood, nor against mobs with torches and clubs and weapons. Rather it was against the Evil One himself—and only the name of Christ could prevail against such an enemy.
When the clamor of the mob finally reached the compound yard, Robbie’s thoughts were dominated by Wallace’s words: “Our only purpose is to bring glory to God.” As each one of his beloved mission family lifted their heads, he saw on the faces of the other three what he felt within himself—a quiet peace at being given the opportunity to do what they had been called here to do—trust their lives into the care of their Father. They gave one another fervent embraces, intending encouragement, not knowing it was also a final goodbye to one of their number.
Then they rose as one body and moved to the chapel door.
Wallace flung it open as if he were welcoming the Sunday morning congregation. The entire mission yard was swarming with shout
ing, hostile people who also moved as one—as an angry and frenzied mob. Among the dozens of strangers from both near and far, Robbie could discern many faces he knew and with whom he had had many friendly encounters over the years. But they were hardly recognizable now that they were twisted and distorted with violence.
Conscious as never before of his role as shepherd of the scattered flock, Wallace stepped onto the porch. But if he had wanted to speak, his attempt would have been drowned in the cries of the crowd when they saw him.
“There he is!” screamed several. “The enemy of our people!”
“Please,” said Wallace calmly, though he had to shout to be heard over the din. “I ask you to judge us by what you have seen these many years. You know we mean nothing but good for you. Go to your homes before harm is done that you will regret.”
“You will not cast any more of your spells over us, you devil!”
“Destroy this wicked place!” cried many voices, almost in unison, as if their taunting shouts had been rehearsed.
“Destroy! Destroy!” The chant rose up like an incantation.
Suddenly, as if out of the darkness itself, a torch shot through the air, landing squarely on the residence roof. The shingles Robbie had once labored so long and hard to replace, leaped instantly into flame.
Miss Trumbull gasped. Robbie placed a comforting arm around her, realizing there was nothing he could do. The roof was too dry to halt the spread of the blaze. Everything she had, everything representing the work of her life, was in that building.
Breaking free from Robbie, she tried to make a dash across the compound to rescue what she could before flames engulfed the entire structure. But the mob would not let her go. Gently, Robbie led her back into the chapel as she wept softly. After a moment she calmed, looked up at Robbie, and returned his heartfelt smile. He knew that her initial shock had been supplanted with the assurance that her real treasures were not to be found in that building at all.
“It is only against God that you sin!” cried Wallace. “But He loves and forgives you, as we do also.”
“Devil! Pig!” the taunters in the crowd shouted as if he had not spoken at all.
“Dear Father,” prayed Wallace, his voice now soft as he spoke with his Lord for these people he had spent his life trying to serve. “These children of your making do not know what they are doing. They are caught up in an awful web of misunderstanding and fear. Show them the glory of your love—”
“Stop him!” shrieked a hysterical voice in the midst of his prayer. “He is attempting to cast another spell!”
The crowd surged forward.
As they did so, Robbie stepped up next to Wallace, as Shan-fei and Miss Trumbull retreated to a safer distance. He did not know for certain why he did so. He knew he could not raise a hand to stop them. But something inside him recalled the doctor’s words of passing the leadership of the mission on to him. If this was how it was destined to end, then at least he wanted to share that burden of leadership for these few moments. If he was to die, he wanted it to be at the side of dear Hsi-chen’s father.
“Stop!” yelled Robbie, but his voice was lost in the frenzied shrieks from the mob.
The crowd continued to surge forward. Robbie could see that those in front carried weapons—some crude clubs and farm implements, others brandishing knives about. He saw no guns, but there were too many people to be certain in the dark. He called back to the women to shut the door and stay inside, just as the first rioter reached the steps swinging a heavy stick. A stinging blow glanced off Robbie’s shoulder. Instinctively he lurched toward the assailant. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Wallace dropping to his knees. The doctor was being attacked by a half dozen men, but he made no move except to protect his face with his arms against the flurry of fists pelting him.
Our only purpose is to bring glory to God.
Wallace’s words rang in Robbie’s mind, and with them other words often quoted by the older missionary: “He was led as a lamb to the slaughter . . .”
Robbie stepped back from his attacker, now joined by several others. Following his friend’s lead, he fell to his knees and bowed his head murmuring praise and thanksgiving to God as the blows rained fiercely on his defenseless body.
Dragging the two men down the steps, the attackers continued their deadly assault. With sweat and blood seeping into his eyes, and pain dulling his consciousness, Robbie lost track of Wallace. He prayed for the doctor, for deliverance, for their persecutors.
All at once a new sound rose in the darkness, not the blood-thirsty cries of the mob, but shouts of a friendly sort. Arresting the attention of the rioters, a new group of locals, led by Chang and Li, entered the compound. With them were twenty-five or thirty others. The mob slackened their attack momentarily as they faced their challengers.
“Get away from here!” yelled Chang. “These people have done no harm. They are friends of our community!”
“No!” screamed a rioter, a man Robbie did not recognize. “He is the devil. He must be destroyed!”
Robbie stood and staggered a few steps toward Chang. Where is Isaiah? he thought, looking around groggily. But before he could make sense out of the scene before him, a fresh blow from the side of a farmer’s hoe landed against the side of his head and sent him sprawling to the ground. Immediately he felt the warm rush of blood trickling down his neck from the gash on his ear. The light from the torches swirled around in the blackness as consciousness began to fade.
“Stand back from him!” he heard a voice yell. Moments later Robbie could feel Li’s arm under his neck, supporting him. “They will not strike you again, Robbie Taggart, my friend,” said Li. “To do so they will have to kill me first, and I think they will not do so.”
At the same time, Chang had pushed his way frantically through the crowd until he located Wallace. He stooped down to his missionary friend, screaming at the frenzied mob to stand clear. In his hand he wielded a great club, and the fire in his eyes told those nearby he would bash in the head of any who tried to stop him.
Wallace lay prostrate on the ground, blood streaming from his nose and mouth. Broken and bleeding from a great gash across his left thigh gave ugly evidence to the violence that had gone further than any of the locals had intended. But the doctor who had helped tend so many of these very men’s families and deliver their own sons and daughters felt no pain from his wounds. He had lapsed into unconsciousness several minutes before with a prayer of forgiveness on his lips.
In the momentary lull that followed Chang’s action, most of the crowd stepped back. The weeping, prayerful voices of the mission’s supporters, the groans from the injured, the crackling from the blazing residence behind them—all seemed to combine to bring them to their senses. And in the center lay Wallace, motionless, in Chang’s arms.
Robbie struggled to his feet, surveyed the scene before him, then limped toward the still form of his mentor.
All at once, from out of the center of the crowd ran one of the strangers who had instigated the riot.
“The devil must die!” he shrieked like a madman. In his hand glistened the cold steel of a long knife.
“Dear God, no!” mumbled Robbie, stumbling toward his friend.
But it was too late. The crazed hireling shot into the open space at the center of the crowd before anyone could stop him, kicked Chang viciously aside before the kneeling farmer could protect himself, and plunged the knife into Wallace’s heart.
“God, what has he done!” cried Robbie.
“You can’t stop us!” declared the murderer, running back through the crowd, which, stunned by the sudden attack, parted and let him pass. “The devil is dead! All foreign devils must die!”
Then just as suddenly as he had come, the assassin disappeared into the blackness of night.
All was still. The blazing fire roared through the night. Some of the crowd silently ran back across the bridge to the village. Others now inched their way forward, crowding around Wallace’s mutilat
ed body. Several knelt to pray.
The horrifying end of their supposed enemy, the man most of the villagers had known as a friend, sobered the angry mob into scattered outbursts of grief and penitence. They had been roused to violence by foolish lies, but none had considered what the consequences might be. Now the shock of what they had done seared through them with excruciating suddenness, as if they had been standing in the midst of the fire raging behind them.
One by one a few continued to flee, each desperate to protect only himself.
Robbie staggered forward, weeping and speechless, crumpling to the ground beside Wallace’s lifeless form.
Ying Nien, who had arrived with Chang and Li, came up next to Robbie, sobbing with Oriental abandon in passionate grief. He dropped to his knees beside the body of the man who, many years ago had led him to his Savior in a Buddhist monastery and who had been as a father to him. The two were joined by Chang and Li, both weeping as well. Robbie felt the hands of shared grief on his back and shoulder. He reached out in return, grasping first Li’s hand, then Chang’s, then reaching his left arm around Ying, and giving his brother and friend a compassionate hug.
They were alone now. Robbie knew that. Wallace’s words had been prophetic. The mission, what was left of it, was now Robbie’s to lead.
“How . . . how could they do this?” wept Ying. “It is they who deserve to die!”
“I loved him too, Nien,” said Robbie. “But we must not give up on these people. Jesus did not deserve to die either. Our friend Isaiah has been honored to share martyrdom just like his Lord. He would want us to rejoice for him.”
Robbie Taggart Page 50