Beyond the narrow cave mouth some infantry and medical units were continuing to climb the track and Jakob watched them fixedly, trying to forget the shuddering cold, the hunger pangs in his stomach, and the throbbing pain of his lacerated back. The hundred lashes of the bamboo lathe imposed by a scowling Judge Yang as punishment for his attempted escape had reopened the wounds of his earlier beatings. No medical treatment had been offered to him, but he had saved a few coarse lumps of salt given him with his meals and dissolved them in tea so that Liang could bathe the injuries. Nevertheless, some of the weals had healed poorly and were suppurating; sometimes when he fell along the march, he had felt the wounds reopen and begin to bleed again.
The cook boy had been ordered from the day of their recapture to march separately among the Chinese prisoners, carrying Jakob’s few belongings and his baby daughter in his panniers. They met usually for only a few minutes each morning and evening, when Liang was allowed to serve Jakob what meager food he was given to prepare. At these meetings Jakob’s guards insisted that they speak Chinese and stood close by to listen to what passed between them. Invariably Liang had been commanded to leave Abigail in his quarters and Jakob had not been allowed to see her since their recapture, despite repeated requests.
Liang’s anxiety at being unable to care adequately for the small baby on his own was becoming increasingly evident in his expression and his voice whenever Jakob inquired about her. During the past two weeks, when the Red Army had been marching through regions where its presence had produced near-famine conditions, the cook boy had become openly agitated by the scarcity of nourishment available. The Red Army cooks were having to scour areas five to ten miles from the route to find food each day, and Liang had been reduced to feeding the baby thin rice gruel and sugared water, Jakob could see that Liang always tried to sound reassuring in answering queries about the baby’s health, yet often a laugh or a nervous smile betrayed his unease. Sometimes on the march Jakob had fancied he could hear the child wailing pitifully somewhere in the throng behind him, but the shouts and noise of the tramping columns made it impossible to be sure. Now his ears were pricked unconsciously all his waking hours for evidence of the infant’s presence; even as he sat shivering in the freezing cave he constantly scanned the passing panoply of troops and animals in case Liang should pass with his panniers.
The skirmishing ahead, which became intermittently audible to Jakob, had slowed and finally halted parts of the column, and he noticed that mainly combat troops and ammunition bearers were moving past his cave. But then an abrupt change occurred in the atmosphere on the mountain track: the guard crouching over the fire leapt to his feet to stand to attention and even before he noticed their red collar flashes, Jakob recognized the unmistakable bearing of troops of the elite Red Cadres Regiment as they strode past, powerful arms swinging, their broad shoulders thrown back, and Mauser machine pistols jutting from holsters on their hips. From overheard gossip, Jakob knew that the regiment was composed of specially trained junior officers who stood permanent guard over the Red Army’s top generals as well as the leadership of the Communist Party. They marched in double ranks, their eyes alert, commanded by mounted officers riding the tallest horses in the whole Red Army. In their midst, by the light of the cave fires Jakob saw for the second time the drab, travel-stained group of men who were leading the revolutionary migration which had ensnared him in its toils.
Almost at once he was able to pick out the distinctive European face of Otto Braun: his short legged steed with its rolling, uneven gait threatened constantly to unseat him and he huddled morosely on its back, riding apart from the others. In the main group, the tall, long-haired figure of Mao Tse-tung was instantly recognizable:
stooping in the saddle of his scrawny horse, he was talking intently to Chou En-lai, who rode at his side with a correct, soldierly bearing. Around them jogged other men Jakob had heard identified as generals of the First, Third, and Ninth Army groups, and as they passed his cave he could see that nothing had occurred to heal the breach between the Chinese leaders and their ailing Comintern adviser.
The memory of the circumstances in which he had last spoken with Braun, in the smoky hilltop temple, caused Jakob to search quickly among the passing group until his gaze lighted on the sole female rider, who was traveling alone well to the rear. Mounted still on a plodding mule and with her head swathed as before in a blanket, Mel-ling was a slender, unmistakable figure. Past images, long absent, flooded back into his mind and he stared after her mule until at last the darkness closed around her. Only then did he realize that one of the riders had wheeled his horse through the protective ranks of the Red Cadres Regiment to dismount close by. Looking up, he found Judge Yang standing beside the fire with his booted feet astride. Behind him his personal bodyguard held his horse’s head watchfully, one hand resting on the butt of his Mauser.
“I have to inform you, imperialist spy, that your masters place no value on your life!” rasped the assistant magistrate. “Shanghai has refused to pay three hundred thousand dollars to save you. We shall have no alternative but to carry out the ultimate penalty when your time runs out three days from now.”
Jakob rose to his feet with difficulty. His limbs were stiff and cold, and because his hands were bound he had no way of chafing life into them. By the light of the flickering fire he could see that the face of the Communist official was set in its usual angry lines.
“The Anglo-Chinese Mission values the lives of all its missionaries equally — but it will never submit in the face of falsehoods.”
“We do not lie!” exclaimed the magistrate, incensed by Jakob’s calm demeanor. “You’ve been found guilty of spying on the Chinese people!”
“I’m not a spy.”
“Then why did you try to escape?”
“Because my imprisonment among you is unjust. After my wife’s death I instructed my cook boy to care for my child and bring her to me. I escaped when he caught up with us — to try to help my child.”
“You failed to obey the laws of the Central Soviet Government,” fumed the magistrate. “You must therefore take the consequences.”
“You’ve already held me captive for almost five months,” said Jakob calmly. “I’ve been bound, beaten, and starved without cause. If you choose to execute me, that will also be unjust. But I don’t fear your threats of execution. I put my trust in God.”
Yang let out a derisive snort. “All your talk of ‘God’ is a trick —so that foreigners can exploit us. The Red Army, not your God will save the people of China by liberating them. And one day revolution will liberate all the peoples of the world!”
The magistrate turned angrily away and swung up onto his waiting horse. But before he settled himself in the saddle Jakob stepped quickly forward.
“Judge Yang, I’d like to make one request.”
Surprised by the missionary’s earnest tone, the magistrate reined in his horse. “What is it?”
“I haven’t seen my daughter since your soldiers brought me back. I fear she may be ill, suffering from cold and malnutrition. She needs a father’s attention. I wish to see her, please.”
The official stared hard at Jakob, then leaned down toward the guard and spoke quietly with him. Before spurring his horse away, he turned back to the missionary with an unpleasant expression on his face. “If your masters don’t pay your fines, three days from now the child will have no father. Permission refused!”
Jakob lowered himself painfully to the oilcloth on the floor of the cave again, fighting a rising sense of desolation. The mountain cold seemed to numb his very bones and his shoulders and arms ached with cramp. Suddenly the certainty of his faith which had buoyed him up in the presence of the magistrate seemed to evaporate within him; feeling too downhearted even to pray, he sat with his eyes closed and his head bowed on his chest. He remained slumped in this attitude for several minutes until he heard a footstep and looked up to find Liang standing in the cave mouth holding an enamel dish of boil
ed rice. But when the guard untied his wrists, Jakob had difficulty straightening his arms and Liang had to massage them for several minutes. Then the returning circulation made his arms throb sickeningly and despite his hunger he found he was unable to eat.
“What were you able to feed my daughter with today, Liang?” asked Jakob in Chinese, seeing the guard hovering close beside them.
“Only rice gruel.” The cook boy avoided Jakob’s eyes altogether as he crouched miserably beside him on the cave floor.
“Is she all right?”
“Yes, the baby is fine, Ke Mu-shih.”
Jakob studied his downcast expression. “Are you sure, Liang?”
“Yes, sure, sure,” replied Liang hurriedly, rubbing the side of his face with his knuckles and staring at the floor.
The guard watched them with a bored expression for a moment— longer, then, because of the extreme cold, turned away and moved back to the fire by the cave mouth.
“Baby need better food, Ke Mu-shih!” murmured the cook boy in English to ensure that the guard did not understand what was being said. “She very thin and cries a lot.”
Jakob stared desperately at him. “They won’t let me see her, I made a new request tonight.”
“Natural milk would be the best for her, Ke Mu-shih.”
Jakob nodded helplessly. “Yes, but what can we do?”
“I have idea.” Liang glanced over his shoulder at the guard and leaned closer. “I’ve seen Chinese woman on march carrying baby. Maybe I ask her if she’ll feed your daughter.”
Jakob stared toward the cave mouth, checking that the guard’s back was still turned toward them; in his mind’s eye he saw again the image of Mei-ling on the mule, cradling an infant in her arms. “You mean the woman riding with the leaders?”
Liang nodded eagerly. “Yes, Ke Mu-shih. Is it all right I ask?”
Jakob hesitated for only an instant. “Yes, but be very careful. Try to ask her secretly if you can, Her name is Lu Mei-ling.”
“Yes! Yes! I’ll do it secretly, Ke Mu-shih. She often ride long way behind others.” Liang nodded and backed away, grinning. “Please eat the rice now, Pastor Ke,” he said loudly in Chinese for the benefit of the guard, and he ducked quickly out of the cave into the freezing night.
At the foot of the mountain, on its western slopes, Mei-ling was riding unseeing through the predawn darkness when Liang appeared silently beside her carrying his shoulder pole. He nudged the mule and called her name, but she ignored him and continued gazing straight ahead. Only when she registered the faint, continuous whimpering sound coming from the rear pannier did she turn in the saddle and look down at him with startled eyes.
“Comrade Lu Mei-ling, my name is Ling,” said the cook boy, pitching his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry to the nearest marchers. “I’m carrying the baby of the English prisoner, Pastor Ke. She’s starving. She needs feeding. Could you please help?”
Mei-ling stared distractedly at him as though unable to comprehend what he was saying, so he repeated his request in a more imploring tone. “Please feed her — just a little. Nobody need know. It will save her life.”
Mei-ling peered about in the darkness, trying to detect if anyone was watching them: seeing that the nearest torchbearer was thirty yards ahead and that they were not observed, she motioned Liang off the track into the shadow of a rock outcrop. She did not dismount but sat looking blankly at him from the saddle of the mule as she had done before. Then she gestured with her free hand toward the rear pannier.
“Show me the child!”
Liang lowered his pole to the ground and removed the lid of the rear basket. With great solicitude he bent and lifted the infant in his arms and held it up toward the mounted Chinese woman. Although there was no moon, the faint luminosity of the approaching dawn provided enough light for Mei-ling to make out the face of the six- month-old baby peering out apprehensively from its wadded zip-up sleeping bag. For a long time she sat motionless on the mule with her arms clasped tight about the body of her own dead child. Then to his surprise she closed her eyes as though suffering a sudden spasm of pain.
“I’ll help you,” she whispered. “But on one condition only.”
“Yes, anything,” said Liang quickly, “I will do anything.”
“Then put this in your basket!”
Mei-ling unwound the ice-encrusted ‘blanket from her shoulders and eased the swaddled body of her own lifeless baby out of her tunic. She thrust it down at Liang and he cradled it uncomprehendingly in one arm while raising himself on his toes so that she could take Jakob’s daughter from him. As he turned away to place the bundle in a pannier, his hands detected its stiffness for the first time.
“I didn’t realize your own child was so ill,” he gasped, looking up at her with horrified eyes.
“Tell no one,” said Mei-ling in a strained voice, unzipping the dark blue sleeping bag and handing it back to Liang. “Say it’s the prisoner’s — and bury it!”
She pressed the whimpering baby tenderly against her naked breast and wrapped her tunic and the blanket close about herself again. Without looking further at Liang, she turned the mule’s head and applied her heels to its sides, urging it quickly back onto the track.
Almost at once she and Jakob’s daughter disappeared from the cook boy’s sight, swallowed up by the near-darkness and the unending ranks of marching men and animals.
15
Narrowing his eyes against the glare of the setting sun, Matthew Barlow raised his head and watched an eagle circling high above him. With its broad wings spread taut, it was spiraling in wide, gentle arcs above the terraced mountains of western Kweichow and the director-general of the Anglo-Chinese Mission felt his own spirits rise within him at the sight of the great bird’s grace in flight. In sharp contrast to the grunting and straining of the three coolies who were manhandling his cumbersome hwa gan with difficulty over the rough mountain trail, the eagle soared and wheeled in effortless silence in the high air, and as he watched it, Barlow gloried in the sight, envying both the eagle’s legendary vision and its high vantage point that would have allowed it to see into the valleys and ravines that lay ahead.
Yunnan coolies back-hauling massive loads of dark rock salt eastward through the mountains had described repeated sightings of Red Army units in the past week, and this had encouraged Barlow to press on rapidly. He and Laurence Franklin had jogged twelve or fourteen hours each day in their chairs, covering distances of up to ninety Ii at a stretch, followed by a dozen coolies carrying the “goodwill offering” of ten thousand silver dollars hidden in sealed kerosene cans. But although Barlow and Franklin scanned the western horizon constantly, so far they had seen no sign of the Red Army’s marching columns.
“It looks like another blank day, sir, I’m afraid.” Franklin halted his chair coolies at Barlow’s side and let Out a long sigh of disappointment. “That only leaves us tomorrow if we’re going to make contact before the deadline expires.”
Barlow continued to watch the swirl of the eagle’s flight above the terraced red earth, his eyes alight with appreciation of the scene’s stark beauty; then he lowered his gaze and looked steadily at Franklin. “We must-still hope and pray that the bud will bless your journey with success, Laurence. If tomorrow is the last day at our disposal, we must use every minute we’ve been given to the best advantage.”
In the almost horizontal rays of the setting sun Franklin saw just how dramatically Barlow’s once-pallid face had been transformed by the long, arduous journey: weathered and roughened by many weeks of mountain winds, by cold, sleet, and rain, it was again as it had been in his earlier life, the face of a man thoroughly at home with the elements. But the change was more than physical. His previously blurred eyes were clear and bright now, reflecting a well of newfound spiritual energy which had carried him through each journey, despite the rigors of the harsh terrain. At the end of each day, when they found lodging in mud-walled inns or temples, to Franklin’s surprise his superior a
lmost always had sufficient reserves of strength to work on late into the night on his Scripture translations. Frequently he had found him at midnight, still poring over his dictionaries and papers by lamplight. These scholarly materials were always safely stowed in the coolie loads ready for departure at dawn, and the director-general had rarely flagged in his daylight tasks, questioning peasants, coolies, and yamen officials doggedly in the unending search for the Red Army regiments holding Jakob captive. Despite the repeated disappointments they had experienced and the dangers and horrors they had faced, Barlow had never shown any sign of wearying of their quest and Franklin could only marvel the more at his superior’s indefatigability. In his turn, Franklin had felt his spirits gradually rise — out on the high trails he had shared the older man’s growing feeling of inspiration and uplift without being able to define precisely why. But occasionally he worried that Barlow was driving himself on with an unnatural strength, and this feeling returned again as he looked into his face in the light of the setting sun.
“There are villages down ahead,” said the younger missionary, motioning with one arm to the lower slopes, where straggling groups of mud cottages bordered the tree-rimmed rice plain. “Perhaps we could find lodging for the night at an inn and start again at dawn.”
“It might be better to carry on without stopping,” replied Barlow. He followed the direction of Franklin’s pointing finger only briefly before lifting his eyes to scan again the distant mountains and valleys that were now falling into shadow.
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