“Judge Yang wishes to see the foreign prisoner at once.”
A loud voice barked out the order; a moment later his guard and one of the assistant magistrate’s staff appeared in the doorway. Without a word the guard seized Jakob by the arm and, pushing him ahead of himself, marched him across the courtyard and up a flight of wooden steps to a loft lit by a flickering hurricane lamp. The Cantonese official was seated at a rough plank table. As soon as Jakob entered, two other guards stepped forward to close the door and ranged themselves behind him. One, carrying a long, supple bamboo cane that was heavily notched at three- or four-inch intervals glanced threateningly at Jakob. The face of the assistant magistrate was dark with anger too, and he glowered at the missionary as the guard pushed him toward the table.
“The headquarters of your society has refused to pay the fines to secure your release,” he shouted, rising from his seat. “You must have committed new crimes by concealing secret instructions to this effect in your letter!”
“It wasn’t necessary for me to conceal such an instruction in my letter,” replied Jakob firmly. “As I’ve tried to tell you before, the Anglo—Chinese Mission is responsible for the welfare of several hundred people scattered throughout China. If it agreed to meet even one ransom demand it would put all of them in danger.”
The Cantonese stared venomously at Jakob, his fists clenched on the tabletop. Then he picked up a single sheet of paper. “Instead of sending money to pay the fines, Barlow, the head of your mission, is traveling to Chentai. He has asked to be allowed to take your place as our prisoner.” He tossed the paper angrily onto the table. “What use is that to the Red Army? We need medicines, radios, guns. We have no use for a sentimental old man who wishes to become a hero late in his life.”
Jakob’s eyes widened in surprise as he absorbed the information. “I wouldn’t agree to Mr. Barlow replacing me under any circumstances. His health wouldn’t stand up to these conditions.”
“You’re quite correct.” Yang spoke in a menacing tone and signaled to the two guards standing by the door to come forward. “Strip his clothes from him!”
The guard with the bamboo cane and his companion wrenched the cotton long-gown from Jakob’s back and tore off his ch’en shan, leaving him naked to the waist. With a length of rope they lashed his wrists together and threw the loose end over a high rafter. They hauled on it together until Jakob’s arms were stretched taut above his head, then fastened the rope, leaving him teetering painfully on the tips of his toes.
“You are an imperialist spy worthy of death, but we shall punish you now as the British punish poor Chinese people in Hong Kong.” The Communist official motioned for the other guards to stand back before nodding to the man holding the bamboo flail. “Begin!”
Jakob heard the whistle of the bamboo through the air and the crack of it striking his back — yet the sharp, stinging sensation seemed to grow only gradually on his skin and a moment or two passed before a fine line across his flesh ignited in incandescent pain. By this time the second blow had landed and another fiery cut soon began to burn his skin, causing him to suck in his breath sharply. The guard wielding the bamboo applied it evenly and regularly, widening and deepening the trench of pain he was gouging across Jakob’s shoulders, working with a calm deliberation born of long practice. The slender bamboo began to feel as sharp as a knife, cutting deeper with each stroke, but Jakob choked back the cries that rose in his throat and endured the punishment silently.
After two or three minutes the scowling Cantonese held up his hand and the guard let the cane fall to his side. “Guarantee that the fines will be paid soon and I will stop the punishment,” he said gratingly.
“I’m dependent on the help of my friends at the mission,” gasped Jakob, swaying helplessly on the rope. ”I can’t give you any guarantees.”
“Then you will be scourged every day!” The Cantonese flourished his hand in Jakob’s direction. “Strike him now in the face.”
The guard moved around in front of him and lashed the bamboo several times across Jakob’s face, raising angry red weals across one cheek. Jakob flinched with the force of the blows, which jerked his head back, but still he did not cry out.
“I’ve heard it said that your religion urges you not to resist if another man strikes you,” said the Cantonese ominously. “You teach that Jesus Christ, when struck on the face, turned and presented his other cheek to his attacker. Is that true?”
Jakob lifted his head to gaze steadily at the Communist official. “Yes, it’s true,” he said quietly.
“Then if it is true, turn your cheek!”
Jakob looked at him in silence for a moment, then slowly moved his head so that his unmarked cheek was turned toward the guard with the flail.
“Strike him again,” yelled the magistrate, and at once the guard lashed at Jakob, knocking his head back and raising another raw welt across his face.
“You’re not laying it on hard enough.” The magistrate rushed around the table and snatched the flail from the guard. Moving close, he delivered half a dozen full-blooded strokes to Jakob’s face, leaning the full weight of his heavy, muscular frame into each one.
Jakob’s head jerked back and forth under the blows but when he still made no sound, the Cantonese thrust the cane ill-temperedly into the guard’s hand once more and returned to the table. Picking up a blank sheet of paper and a pen, he swung back to face Jakob.
“Afterward you will write a new letter to be carried to your director-general in Chentai. You will tell him that you have been punished in the same way as Chinese coolies are punished by your imperialist countrymen in I-long Kong — arid that you will be punished like this every day until the fines are paid!”
The Cantonese motioned with his head toward the missionary and the guard moved back to take up position behind him. Again Jakob heard the whine and the crack of the cane before he felt the first stab of pain on his shoulder. But gradually the strokes blurred into one another and soon he was conscious only of the all-consuming fire that ravaged his bloodied flesh from shoulder to hip.
15
Chafing their cold hands together and blinking in the sudden glare of the gently hissing gaslights, a steady stream of worshipers stepped gratefully from the raw, foggy November night into the protection of the dingy church hail in Manchester’s Moss Side. The cobbled streets outside glistened damply in the light filtering out through the windows and many men and women among the growing congregation coughed and snuffled and pressed handkerchiefs to their pinched, white faces. Few spoke and in the near—silence there was an almost tangible sense of anguish.
Each newcomer who stepped across the hail’s threshold felt the atmosphere of crisis envelop him at once and all eyes on arrival flickered briefly to the straight-backed man and woman seated side by side in the front row. Staring fixedly ahead of themselves, straining to maintain a dignified composure, they were clearly the focus of the gathering crowd. Whenever a close friend bent over them to murmur a consoling greeting or wordlessly squeeze their hands, they acknowledged the gesture with stiff, silent nods, obviously afraid that a smile or any other relaxation of their self-control might burst the darn that held back the emotion inside them.
“The situation which has brought us here tonight could not be more grave,” said a thin, bespectacled minister who mounted the polished pine dais when everyone was seated. “Two weeks ago we heard that a brave young man who grew up amongst us had been kidnapped in the wilds of China. Now We’ve learned with the greatest sorrow that his wife has been brutally murdered by his captors and both he and his baby daughter are missing in the wilderness. - .
Jakob’s mother bit her lip and closed her eyes. Both she and her husband, who sat stiffly beside her, were white-haired now. Lines of age were deepening in their chalky faces and their drab, inexpensive clothes testified to the hard economic realities of their existence in northern industrial England. But despite their humble appearance, they held their heads erect, possesse
d of the same pride in their meager, hardworking achievements as those people gathered in sympathy around them. In her lap Jakob’s mother clutched a sheaf of newspaper clippings, and as the minister spoke, her eye fell on them. Although she had read them many times before, in her agitation she continued to leaf through them again and again, as though she believed, against all odds, that there might be some chance of discovering hidden hope in their words.
“WIFE OF SEIZED MISSIONARY FOUND DEAD — NEWBORN BABE MISSING” declared the latest story clipped from a local newspaper, the Daily Dispatch. The report told how Felicity Kellner’s headless body had been discovered outside the Paoshan city wall but added that there had been no trace of her month-old daughter or her husband. “Somewhere in China’s dark interior,” added the newspaper, “the young missionary who left Manchester three years ago is still held captive by bandits who threaten to execute him unless ransom, equivalent to almost twenty thousand pounds, is paid quickly. He is said by the Chinese authorities to have been captured by a band of ‘rogues’ — scarlet-clad banditry who infest the region around Chentai, where he was conducting work for the Anglo-Chinese Mission.
In her distress Jakob’s mother was shuffling the news clippings rapidly as she reread them. Noticing that the sound was becoming audible in the quiet of the hall, Franz Kellner leaned across and removed them from her hands. He slipped them into a pocket of his jacket, then took his wife’s hand in his own and gently drew her attention back to the white-collared minister addressing the hall.
Although we’re many thousands of miles away and we might feel helpless to assist Jakob in his suffering,” continued the minister in a cairn voice, “in coming together tonight we must remember that God is never defeated by distance. We must also remember that we’re not alone in lending our strength. All over the world, friends of the Anglo-Chinese Mission are gathering to offer prayers for the safety of Jakob and his infant daughter, Abigail. Because the outlandish ransom demand can never be met, all of us must join together and pray that the threat to execute Jakob will not be carried out. And while mourning the tragic death of his wife, Felicity, with our sorrow we must mingle praise for the glory of her sacrifice. She was ready to lay down her life for what she sincerely believed, like all true Christians through the ages. . .
For some moments the minister allowed an unbroken silence to fall over the hall. When he sensed that the three hundred or so people present were joined and drawn together by their common bond of devotion, he led them in prayer. Seated and still, with their heads bowed, the congregation, which included men, women, and children of all ages, followed the minister’s words with a silent intensity. Every plea and assertion of faith he made, they punctuated with the gentle explosions of their own responses; as the fog swirled outside, the murmured cadences of their prayers and later the sound of their hymns, sung with vigor, penetrated the closed windows. People passing by heard the vibration of their voices through the freezing dark and when the singing ceased, the quiet of the night around them was suddenly more dense.
Inside the hail, as the notes of the last hymn died away, the minister beckoned gently to Jakob’s father and the big, gentle man stepped up onto the dais to face the gathering. In his hesitant voice the influences of his native Swiss tongue were still strong but he spoke with quiet determination.
“Thirteen years ago in this very place, Jakob gave his tram fare home to China, to help with missionary work in the country. He was a small boy but even then he was ready to give all he possessed for God’s work in Asia. If l know my son, he still feels exactly the same today despite everything that’s happened.” The accented voice of the Swiss-born engineer faded and his callused hands tightened on the heavy family Bible he held before him. “From this hall, where he found his life’s inspiration, we all have a special duty to help arm Jakob with the strength of our prayers. All of you have already been very generous and I want to thank you for giving us your help. My wife and I are deeply grateful to you all
In her seat Jakob’s mother gave way suddenly to a fit of silent weeping, and her husband stepped down to circle her shaking shoulders with one arm. After leading a final prayer, the minister brought the meeting to an end. Franz Kellner immediately rose and hurried his wife toward the door, but a studious-looking man carrying a notebook who had been sitting at the back of the hall hurried after him and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Kellner, I’m from the Dispatch. May I ask you what your hopes are for your son? Do you think there’s a chance that he will be released unharmed?”
Franz Kellner turned in the doorway, still holding his wife’s arm. His expression was pained but his manner remained polite. “Like Jakob,” he said slowly, “I believe prayer has the power to change things. We shall have to wait and see.”
16
A cold wind gusting across the hillside above Paoshan ruffled the spray of white lilies carried by Matthew Barlow and pressed his flapping black long-gown against his body. As he trudged uphill behind six coolies who bore a cheap coffin of unvarnished pine on their shoulders, his movements were slow and stiff but his face was determinedly clenched with the effort which climbing the hill was demanding of him. At his side, Laurence Franklin glanced solicitously at him every few seconds, placing a hand beneath his elbow to steady him whenever they crossed a patch of rough ground. Broken banks of leaden clouds were racing overhead, driven by the high wind, and through the gaps, occasional torrents of bright sunshine fell onto the stark mountain peaks beyond the town, changing the iron gray tints fleetingly to softer shades of blue and brown. In a green glade of firs close to the execution site a gash of red-brown earth lay open and waiting like a wound; when the coolies lowered the coffin onto wooden trestles set up beside the grave and removed the lid, Barlow bent with difficulty to place his spray of flowers reverently on the white shroud of cheap cotton in which Felicity’s body had been wrapped.
“I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. . .
The wind whipped wisps of thinning white hair across Barlow’s eyes as he turned to address the knot of apprehensive Chinese who had followed him and Franklin up the hill. Composed mainly of those converts who had worked for Jakob and Felicity at the mission house in Chentai, the Chinese Christians glanced uneasily around the grassy glade as though fearful that some residual danger might still be lurking among the black tree stumps. As Barlow intoned the words of the funeral service, their gaze strayed repeatedly to the larger crowd of townspeople who had spilled out of the east gate of Paoshan to follow the coffin up the hill. The crowd, drawn on by morbid curiosity, had at first come to a diffident halt some fifty or so yards short of the burial area, but on hearing Barlow speak Chinese, they began edging closer little by little, trying to catch what he said.
Scooping up some earth, Barlow scattered a handful on the white cotton shroud in the shape of a crucifix; then, with head bowed, he stood aside. The six coolies fastened the lid in place and, using ropes, lowered the coffin into the ground. A moment later they began wielding spades, rapidly shoveling lumps of earth down upon the coffin lid.
“As it has pleased Almighty God to take unto himself the soul of our dear sister Felicity Kellner, we therefore commit her body to the ground,” intoned Barlow, glancing toward the crowd of Chinese onlookers. “Earth to earth ... ashes to ashes . . . dust to dust. . in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ
Through a break in the dark cloud passing overhead, a pale shaft of sunlight shone gently into the glade and the moan of the wind and the scraping of shovels were the only sounds to be heard as the coolies filled in the grave and banked a mound of earth above it. Laurence Franklin saw Barlow lift his head; in the unexpected glow of the sun the lines of sadness and anguish etched into the director- general’s sagging face seemed to soften.
“The violent and horrifying death of a brave young American girl
on this remote hillside in China might seem at first sight to be a reason for us to feel the deepest sense of misery and despair,” said Barlow, raising his shaking voice so that it would carry to the crowd of Paoshan townspeople beyond the little circle of mourners. “But we mustn’t fail to sense the glory of these tragic events, it’s deeply saddening to find how much evil and hatred can rest in the hearts of men — but Jakob and Felicity both came to China because they loved the Lord and the Chinese people. And although we perhaps can’t understand now why one of them should have been cut down so brutally and the other borne off into the wilderness along with their child, someday the meaning and purpose will probably become clear to us all. . .
As he spoke, Barlow’s voice was gradually gathering strength and resonance and the large crowd of Chinese who had been milling and shuffling beyond the ring of immediate mourners gradually quieted in response. During the long journey from Shanghai by road and river, Barlow’s demeanor had been that of an ailing man girding himself by will alone for an effort that he knew was beyond his natural strength. After disembarking from the river steamer, he and Franklin had taken to mountain chairs. Franklin had hired a team of six coolies to carry Barlow and had alternated them frequently to preserve their strength and help them provide a smoother ride. A canvas-canopied chair rigged like a miniature covered wagon, with a complex set of poles that allowed three men to bear it, had afforded him maximum protection from the weather and Franklin’s apprehensions that the jolting journey over the high trails to Chentai might deplete Barlow’s fading energies had proved unfounded. On the contrary, the sharp, stinging winds blowing across the high passes, far from proving debilitating to Barlow, had visibly invigorated him. Frequently he had rolled his canopy back to expose his face to the wind and sun, and by the time they reached Chentai, despite the dolorous reason for their journey, his eyes seemed clearer, his face ruddier and more animated, than in Shanghai.
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