“But you need rest, sir,” protested Franklin, unable to hide his concern. “At least stop at an inn for an hour or two and have something to eat. That will give us a chance to speak to any coolies who’ve traveled from the west.”
“All right, we’ll go down.” Barlow smiled in submission. “But I’ve never felt stronger, Laurence. I’ve never been more aware of God’s comforting presence.”
He spread both arms to embrace the mountains and forests that were beginning to merge in an infinite stillness with the crimsoning heavens. The dark crescent of the eagle, the only living thing visible in the vastness, was still dipping and soaring high above them in response to some unheard symphony, and they both watched it as though hypnotized.
“That eagle feels it too, don’t you see?” said Barlow, speaking softly so as not to offend against the deep silence. “These mountains have the power to soothe and comfort us. They provide man with hope and optimism, a new perspective. And I sense, Laurence, that you feel it too. In a strange way, we both have Jakob to thank for this new awareness. On these heights, I’ve felt more clearly than ever before the strength and protection of God. With each pace we’ve taken and each prayer we’ve offered, I’ve felt the sense of communion with God deepen — and I’ve felt a certainty grow within me that our efforts to save Jakob will not be in vain.”
Their assembled coolies, who had halted dutifully on the track beneath them, were watching for Barlow’s signal and as soon as he waved his arm in their direction, they set off downhill toward the plain. Within half an hour the whole party was padding along the narrow main street of a village of single-story mud hovels, and a curious crowd of ragged, barefoot children quickly formed about them. The men of the village, gazing out from their doorways, were also barefoot and dressed in dirty, patched cotton rags. Their homes, little more than holes in the ground circled by mud walls, bore the same marks of poverty and disease that Barlow had seen in a thousand other Chinese villages: beds made from planks supported on old pots, beaten earth floors, filthy rag coverlets, and wash lines hung with other pitiful fragments of grimy cloth. Blindness, stunted limbs, open sores, and emaciated, unwashed bodies greeted their gaze wherever they looked and always the dark, unwavering eyes watched them with suspicion as they passed.
To their surprise they found a two-story inn with wooden floored upper rooms opening onto a balcony that overlooked a muddy yard.
The growing crowd of children followed the missionary party into the yard and watched the coolies stacking the innocent-looking kerosene cans, under Franklin’s supervision, alongside other loads. Through open doors some exhausted eastbound baggage coolies could be seen stretched out on straw mats on the earthen floors. Many were already oblivious to their surroundings, smoking opium pipes, while others watched the arrivals with guarded curiosity. In the middle of the yard, women and girls wearing wooden clogs and begrimed cloth bandages on their tiny bound feet cooked and washed amid the noisy clamor of playing children.
“It’s a little more difficult to feel God’s presence down here, sir,” remarked Franklin with a sigh when he was standing beside Barlow on the railed balcony, looking at the squalor of the yard. “Disease and poverty make themselves more evident, as usual.”
“If you look hard enough, Laurence, there’s always a sign to be seen.” Barlow, his features softened by compassion, nodded toward one corner of the yard where a tiny, mud-stained child was stumbling on unsteady legs in the wake of a mangy cur. The face of the child was alight with wonder and excitement as it chased the dog, and the animal, caught up in the game, gamboled playfully about the infant. But when Barlow turned to look at Franklin, he found the younger missionary’s attention was elsewhere; following his gaze, Barlow saw two Yunnan coolies inspecting their stack of kerosene cans.
“I think I’ll go and make sure nobody’s trying to steal our ‘fuel,’ said Franklin, hurrying toward the top of the steps. “I’ve ordered hot water and food, sir, to be brought up here to your room. It shouldn’t be long. And I’ll try to pump those coolies for some information while I’m down there . .
An hour passed before Franklin reappeared, but when he did he ran up the steps two at a time. After knocking eagerly on the director- general’s door, he entered to find Barlow seated at a table, working on his translations by the light of an oil lamp. He had washed and eaten and put on a clean long-gown, and was so engrossed in his work that he did not look up.
“Half a dozen Yunnan coolies have just come in, sir,” Franklin burst out excitedly. “They say they’ve seen many thousands of Red Army troops on the march this afternoon — about ten miles west of here. I’ve traced their route on our map. I think we could be very close to them!”
Barlow painstakingly penned a final line of Chinese characters without hurrying, and when he finally raised his head he was smiling in a knowing way. “That’s perfect, Laurence. I’ve just drafted my last page. Seven years of work is virtually finished.” He patted a pile of manuscript paper nearly a foot high with his right hand. “I’ll just have time to check over the last few sheets in the chair after it gets light.”
“Congratulations, sir,” said Franklin warmly; then his own impatience intruded again. “When shall we start?”
“Call out the men straightaway, I’m almost ready.”
The grumbling coolies reluctantly hauled themselves from their sleeping mats on Franklin’s command and hung storm lanterns on their packs and carrying poles. Before half an hour had passed the dying fires outside the mud-walled houses were sinking into the darkness beneath them as Barlow led his party up the terraced hillside again under a clear, starry sky. In the hours that followed, the only sounds in the still night were the creak of the bamboo chairs, the scuff of the coolies’ feet on the rough tracks, and their labored breathing. Lulled by the swaying motion of their hwa gan, Barlow and Franklin both dozed fitfully, and when, toward dawn, Barlow caught sight of a ribbon of tiny lights flickering across the folds of an unseen hillside far ahead of them, he thought for a while he was dreaming. But on waking fully he realized that the lights were still moving steadily onward in the distant darkness and he called urgently to Franklin.
“Laurence! I think we’ve found our quarry at last!”
Stopping their chairs on the ridge alongside the crowd of “kerosene” coolies, Barlow and Franklin gazed in silence at the spectacular river of burning torches that was lighting the way for a column of marching men tens of thousands strong.
“How far away are they, do you think, sir?” whispered Franklin.
“It’s hard to say. Five miles, maybe ten.” Barlow’s voice was elated. “But with lock we’ll overtake them before noon. If the Lord blesses our efforts, you’ll be able to take Jakob and my finished manuscript back to Shanghai together.”
The director-general called excitedly to the coolies to press on with all speed and soon they were jolting rapidly through the starlit darkness. As the sky behind them brightened the Red Army men extinguished their torches and for a time they became invisible to Barlow’s party in the half-light; but when the sun rose fully the two missionaries were able to make out for the first time the tiny individual figures of men and pack animals climbing and descending together in a long, winding swath through the rumpled contours of the stark landscape.
The sight encouraged the chair and baggage coolies to adopt a faster pace and their rhythmic chants of “heh-ho! heh-ho! heh-ho!” increased in tempo. As they ran, Barlow bent his head intently over the bulging file of manuscript he had lodged on his knees in the hwa gan and, despite the chair’s rolling motion, he continued checking his translation of the final verses of the New Testament. Only occasionally did he glance up to stare across the scrub-covered mountains and Franklin noticed then that his eyes shone with an inner excitement. It was as if his wish to complete his burdensome scholarly task before catching up with the marching Red Army column had become a race against time to be won at all costs, the last big challenge of a life dedicated to spread
ing the Christian Gospel in China.
As the coolies hurried them onward, Barlow became quite oblivious to his surroundings and he didn’t lift his head even when the drum of horses’ hooves sounded suddenly on a higher ridge. Franklin, however, turned in time to see half a dozen horsemen riding fast in the same direction as themselves. They were little more than silhouettes against the skyline and they disappeared from sight almost at once, but not before Franklin had recognized the ominous outlines of rifles and crossed bandoliers slung about the riders’ shoulders. Even when the group of horsemen reappeared abruptly ahead of them, their mounts sliding in a storm of dust down the ridge, Barlow remained so absorbed in his task that he did not raise his eyes. He looked up only when his frightened chair coolies shuffled to a halt — but by then the horsemen were ranged in a small arc blocking the narrow track and they held rifles that pointed steadily at the center of his chest.
“Don’t move!” The bandit leader, who had the dark skin and narrow eyes of a Kweichow mountain dweller, shouted the command in a harsh voice. “We’re taking your silver!”
The rest of the bandits spurred their horses toward the terrified coolies, motioning with their rifles for them to turn back the way they had come. In that instant the scene in the inn yard flashed into Franklin’s memory. He remembered how the Yunnan coolies had sidled around the kerosene cans, making sly conversation with the carriers, and he cursed his own lack of vigilance. Robber gangs that preyed on caravans and coolie trains carrying silk, opium, and silver were common in western Kweichow, he knew, and impoverished transport coolies who kept them informed could scarcely be blamed for wanting to augment the meager pittances they earned daily for backbreaking toil.
“Stop!”
Barlow’s shouted command in Chinese was confident and authoritative and he rose out of his chair in the same moment, clutching the bulging file of translation manuscript against his chest.
“That silver is required to save a man’s life. Leave it be! We are engaged in God’s work!”
The bandit leader, taken aback by the forcefulness of Barlow’s response, gaped at the old missionary uncertainly. The ill-clad men flanking him also seemed nonplussed and they looked uneasily back and forth from Barlow to Franklin. The coolies carrying the silver cowered behind Barlow, their faces taut with fright, but the director- general showed not the slightest sign of fear as he stepped down from his chair and moved slowly toward the bandits. One of them began to turn his horse’s head and Franklin was sure all were about to take to their heels when a shot exploded from the bandit leader’s rifle. The sight of Barlow staggering backward with a crimson stain blossoming on the front of his dusty long-gown shocked Franklin so deeply that he scarcely heard the sound of the second shot. His own shoulder was sticky with blood and he was lying prostrate on the stony track before he felt any pain. Through a snowstorm of manuscript pages plucked by the wind from Barlow’s file, the sight of his superior tumbling slowly down the steep slope at the side of the track seemed like a hallucination. The coolies carrying the silver were being herded away across the ridge before the bandits’ horses, and the rising wind was scattering individual sheaves of the manuscript far across the mountainside. By the time Franklin slithered down to where Barlow lay motionless at the foot of the scree, the chair coolies had fled too. With difficulty Franklin lifted the older man into a sitting position and began trying to pull aside the blood-soaked material of his long-gown. But when Barlow opened his eyes, he shook his head, motioning for Franklin to make him comfortable against a stunted tree. Pages of the Scripture translation from the file that had come to rest in a thorn bush were fluttering about their heads, and when he had settled Barlow to his satisfaction, Franklin clutched distractedly at some of the loose sheets.
“I’ll gather up as many pages as I can, sir.” He said in a desperate voice, although it was obvious that the wind was dispersing much of the manuscript beyond retrieval.
“Don’t worry, Laurence ... there’s no need.”
Barlow lifted one hand weakly in admonition: to Franklin’s astonishment the old missionary’s face was calm and composed and suddenly he smiled brilliantly as though he felt no pain from the lethal wound in his chest.
“It’s a mistake to believe that the words of the Scriptures are all-important. . .
“But sir,” protested Franklin, “all that wasted time and effort . . . it will come to nothing.”
Barlow shook his head slowly. “It’s not ‘wasted work. . . . For
seven years I’ve been blinded by too much doctrine ....I’ve been
going through the motions. . . . The mountains have taught me a
greater lesson. . .
“What’s that, sir?”
“The lesson we learn early in our lives and too often forget . . . to listen to the word of God alive in our own souls
Franklin noticed that Barlow was staring over his shoulder and he turned and looked up to see what he was watching: high above in the brightening dawn sky an eagle was again riding the wind with outstretched wings, drifting, rising, exulting in the birth of a new day.
“That eagle hasn’t forgotten, Laurence,” murmured Barlow. “And it’s still trying to teach us. . . . If only we’d pay attention
nothing’s more important than relearning that lesson
Barlow’s voice trailed off and they watched the eagle together in silence. Then Franklin instinctively turned his head and scanned the mountains to the southwest. It took him a moment or two to pick out the tail of the Red Army column — the marchers were moving swiftly, running or jog-trotting, and even as he watched, the rear guard began to disappear into a valley that still lay in deep shadow.
“Sometimes we mistake our great objectives,” whispered Barlow hoarsely as though reading the younger man’s thoughts. “We came to set Jakob free ... but he’s in God’s hands. Instead what we’ve discovered . . . has set us free. . . . So our search hasn’t been in vain. . . . make sure you pass that on . . .
In the director-general’s eyes a gleam of triumph had appeared, and comprehension lightened the feeling of sadness that Franklin felt welling up inside himself. The next moment Barlow shuddered and became still; on his face a hint of the smile remained and his eyes did not close but continued gazing up toward the eagle that was still soaring effortlessly above them in the clear dawn sky.
16
Judge Yang summons the foreign prisoner. Follow me!”
The voice of the assistant magistrate’s bodyguard was as harsh and hostile as ever but Jakob, deeply exhausted in body and spirit, heard it with a curious feeling of relief. Through his pain and despair he had been trying to prepare himself with prayer to face his executioners calmly. Three days had passed since Judge Yang had delivered his angry ultimatum and Jakob had begun to watch for the arrival of his bodyguard. When at last he heard the order, to his surprise it seemed almost welcome. After marching nonstop all night, the column had pushed on relentlessly throughout the day, and it was not until late afternoon that his guards had thrown him face down on the beaten-earth floor of a small farmhouse on the Yunnan border. He had lain there unmoving ever since, shuddering with a fever, not knowing whether an hour or two had passed. His feet, on which his straw sandals had again shredded to nothing, were hugely swollen and festering, his back throbbed agonizingly, and he was wracked in turn by dizzying waves of nausea and stomach pain.
His hands were still bound behind his back and after making two attempts he found that he could not rise unaided. Impatiently, two of his own guards hauled him upright, cursing him loudly. But on seeing him sway between them, they seized his arms and frog-marched him bodily out of the farmhouse in the wake of the judge’s bodyguard.
During the long day’s trek, as his fever had grown, he had fallen often and one of the guards, perhaps suspecting he was feigning illness, had torn a branch from a tree and flogged him whenever he stumbled. Nationalist aircraft had spotted the column in midafternoon and showered it twice with bombs, forcing
the marchers to fling themselves into roadside ditches. After each attack, torn and mutilated bodies of soldiers and prisoners alike were left scattered across their route and these sights had increased the sense of hopelessness that had been growing steadily inside Jakob since his recapture.
Because of the pain in his feet and legs, Jakob was hobbling bent almost double between his two captors, and ‘when the magistrate’s bodyguard noticed this, his face darkened with anger.
“Walk upright,” he yelled furiously. “You must appear respectful before the judge!”
One of the two men holding the missionary struck him hard in the chest, forcing him to straighten his back as they marched him out of the yard in front of the farm. The moment his head was forced up, Jakob saw the figure of Liang bending beside his panniers in a field of sprouting sorghum. It was a moment or two before the missionary noticed the short spade in the cook boy’s hand; then as he was marched nearer, he saw that Liang had already dug a small hole in the damp black earth. Judge Yang was standing with a group of guards fifteen yards away and before Jakob reached them, the judge made a signal. At once Liang bent obediently over one of the panniers.
The cook boy kept his head bowed as he lifted the little blue zip bag from the basket. But for the briefest instant he looked agitatedly in Jakob’s direction before kneeling beside the hole in the earth. At that moment Jakob saw that the sleeping bag ‘was tightly closed, and with a moan of anguish he stumbled forward to the rim of the grave, dragging his guards with him.
“Liang, what happened?”
Liang looked uncertainly toward the Cantonese judge. Seeing that the official was watching him without expression, Liang avoided the missionary’s eyes. “The baby died, Ke Mu—shih,” he muttered in Chinese, placing his burden carefully in the bottom of the grave. “There was nothing I could do.”
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