Juan in China

by Eric Linklater

  The gap in the blocked doorway had to be enlarged before Wang could get his bundle through it. Scrambling over the stones, the others followed him.

  The bomb had dug a crater in the yard, and the wall of the adjacent lane had collapsed. Everything seemed black as a tomb at first, but presently their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and to the east they discerned – or so they thought – a weakening in the sky, a grey hand behind the curtain. A cold thin rain was falling, and a little snarling wind blew angrily through the ruined streets.

  They had gone no more than a couple of hundred yards when suddenly, from the obscurity of a doorway, came two men who halted them with a rough challenge to Wang, who led the way. In another second they were hemmed against the wall by eight or nine figures, dimly seen, who came swiftly from the farther darkness.

  Wang, in a good confident voice, answered whatever question he had been asked, but before he could finish his sentence, and without any warning, the two leaders struck him fiercely on the head and shoulders with heavy clubs that they carried. Wang stumbled and let fall his burden of clothes. Again and again he was hit. They hit him as he fell, and belaboured him on the ground.

  Peony and Kuo were screaming loudly, and Juan was struggling to find, beneath unfamiliar clothes, the pistol that Kuo had given him. Before he could pull it from under his long gown, Kuo had drawn hers and fired it wildly in the air. Her first bullet did no harm to anyone, but narrowly missed killing Juan. He felt its passage like a hot poker thrust at his neck, and was deafened by the report. He ducked so hurriedly that he nearly fell. But Kuo’s third or fourth shot must have wounded or badly frightened one of their assailants, who suddenly yelled with anger and threw a knife that hit the wall behind them with a clattering smack.

  One of the leaders of the gang stooped for Wang’s bundle, but Juan, who had now got his pistol free, fired quickly and hit him in the hand. He shouted with pain and fled into the darkness with a curious stumbling movement.

  The others also retreated a little way, and Juan told the two girls to get into the doorway behind him. ‘You’d better give me your pistol,’ he said to Kuo. ‘You can have my swordstick instead, but for heaven’s sake don’t stick it into me.’

  Two of the gangsters – footpads, looters, or whatever they were – had pistols or revolvers. They opened a brisk but very inaccurate fire, to which Juan did not reply. They drew nearer, the whole crew of them, in a ragged half-circle. One of them stepped forward out of the ring, shooting as he came, lunging fiercely with every shot. Juan fired once, and shot him through the chest. He fell shrieking, and jerked about on the road. Juan fired again. His body shivered violently and lay still.

  ‘It’s very funny,’ said Juan, – ‘for God’s sake keep your heads down!’

  The gangsters had begun a bombardment more dangerous than bullets. Chattering like apes, they were throwing clubs, cobblestones, and half-bricks. A club struck Juan on the knee, and with a roar of anger he went limping to the attack. The magazines of both his pistols were more than half-full, and aiming low, he opened rapid fire. The gang broke and fled, but still Juan fired furiously into the darkness, aiming wherever he could see a running shadow, and three or four times there came an answering cry of pain.

  He returned to the doorway and handed his empty pistols to Kuo. ‘Reload them both,’ he said, and went to look at Wang.

  Wang was dead. There could be no doubt about it, and Juan did not prolong his examination, for the little man’s head was unpleasant to look at.

  He took one of the pistols that Kuo had recharged, and told her to keep the other, but to put the safety-catch on. ‘They’ve killed Wang,’ he said. ‘His father will have to stay in bed, I’m afraid. And that fellow’s dead too. It’s funny, as I was saying a minute ago, that I should come here to fight Japanese, and the only person I succeed in killing is one of your countrymen. But we’d better get a move on.’

  ‘Peony’s hurt,’ said Kuo.

  A stone had struck her on the head. She was faint and dizzy, but able to walk with assistance, and Kuo carried the small parcel of her belongings.

  ‘Do you know if we’re going the right way?’ asked Juan.

  Peony murmured something, and Kuo translated. ‘She says we can get to Boundary Road and North Honan Road, where the gate is.’

  ‘How often do they open the gate?’

  Juan suddenly put up his pistol and fired at a sinister dark shape ahead of them. It did not move. He went forward cautiously, and saw it was the door of a house, broken away from its upper hinge and leaning forward like someone peering down the street.

  ‘I’m taking no chances,’ he said truculently. ‘From now on I’m shooting first.’

  In several places the whole road was filled with shattered masonry, and they had to climb over treacherous mounds of splintered stone and protruding rafters. Peony fell once or twice, and had to be lifted over the worst of the obstacles. But she did not complain and without hesitation directed them where to go.

  Slowly it grew lighter. The ragged line of a broken wall was black against a dark grey sky. With a sort of timidity, a shrinking astonishment, the streets revealed their shameful disarray. A coolie lay dead beneath a heavy handcart he had been pulling. A cold vagrant breeze blew, with a run and a skip, a blood-stained felt hat along the pavement

  They came to the railway. There was rust on the disused rails, and one of them, torn loose by a bomb, rose like the neck of a swimming cormorant from the cindery track.

  The North Station can’t be far away,’ said Juan. ‘They’ve probably got a couple of machine-guns covering the line.’

  They halted irresolute, and waited a little while behind a heap of debris. Everything was quiet.

  ‘Blast this bloody war,’ said Juan. ‘Look here, I’ll go across, as slowly as I can, and if nothing happens, you follow. I don’t suppose they can. shoot straight anyway.’

  With a hollow feeling in his bowels and a great temptation in his mind to duck and run, he walked leisurely over the line. Nothing happened. He waited for half a minute, while the pulse moderated in his throat, and waved to Kuo. She and Peony came as slowly, because Peony could not hurry, and reached the other side without an alarm.

  On the dangerous side of the Boundary Gate there was a Chinese defence-system of sandbags and barbed wire, with grey-coated soldiers watchful behind it. But here there were too many other people for three dishevelled figures to attract attention. A crowd of two or three hundred Chinese were waiting under the huge steel-sheeted gate that closed the street to them. They squatted on the ground with small bundles beside them, or stood motionless, patiently waiting. There was a man whose only possession was a flute, and near him a fat woman with a bird in a wicker cage.

  ‘We may have to wait a long time before they open the gate,’ said Kuo.

  ‘Are you sure it will be opened?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  At the other side of the gate, watching the Settlement’s frontier, was a company of Shanghai Volunteers. But how to communicate with them was a difficult problem. To push through the crowd and shout for assistance, hoping that a quick-eared sentry would immediately recognize an English voice and English words, was the simplest solution, but a dangerous one. The crowd of refugees, nervous under their passivity and easily moved to hysterical anger, might suddenly turn upon a foreigner. His unexpected appearance among them might start a panic in which anything could happen. And to sit down till the gate was opened, not knowing with certainty that it would be opened, was a prospect hardly more pleasant. They were too near the apex of the battle-line to wait for daylight with equanimity.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Juan, and fumbling beneath his black gown he found his pocket-book and took from it the three cards that Harris had given him. Then he looked for three half-bricks, which were easily discovered, and tearing strips from his handkerchief tied a card to each brick.

  ‘Well give Mr Kettledrum of the Express the first chance,’ he said,
and threw the brick over the heads of the crowd, over the gate beyond them, into the safety of the Settlement. A few of the Chinese looked at him in mild astonishment.

  Mr Kettledrum failed to attract the attention of the Shanghai Volunteers. A minute later Mr Dearborn, of the San Francisco Examiner, described a parabola and landed not far from a disgruntled sentry who was suffering from a slight hangover.

  He called the sergeant of the guard and said, with justifiable annoyance, that some illegitimate foundling of the Middle Kingdom was chucking meretricious stones at him over the incarnadined gate.

  ‘Chuck ’em back,’ said the sergeant, and was about to return to his early morning cup of tea when Mr Gibbon of the Times hit the sandbags behind him with a dull thud.

  ‘Damn their bloody impudence,’ said the sergeant, whose surprise was increased when he saw that the brick was bandaged with a strip of handkerchief.

  ‘That’s funny,’ he said, and discovered Mr Gibbon’s card. ‘Go and look for the other one.’

  The sentry returned with Mr Kettledrum’s brick in one hand and Mr Dearborn’s in the other.

  ‘There must be three of them out there,’ said the sergeant. ‘These sons-of-bitches of newspapermen ought to be kept on a lead. Call the bloody guard, Charlie, we’ve got to open that blasted gate.’

  Cautiously the gate was swung open, but half a dozen bayonets prevented the refugees, who with loud cries rose instantly and surged forward, from rushing into the Settlement.

  ‘Damned if I see anyone who looks like a special correspondent, or even a reporter,’ said the sergeant.

  From the back of the crowd Juan shouted urgently.

  ‘But I can hear them,’ said the sergeant. ‘Kick these bastards out of the light.’

  After a little shoving, a little thumping of slippered feet with their rifle-butts, the guard forced a passage through the clamorous mob, and Juan, shouting again, caught the sergeant’s eye.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘What the hell does that matter?’ shouted Juan. ‘Get this stinking coolie out of my way.’

  ‘He’s English all right,’ said one of the guard.

  ‘Take hold of these two girls and get ‘em inside,’ said Juan. ‘I’ll explain every thing later.’

  After a certain amount of scuffling the gate was shut again, and the mob howled dismally on the other side.

  ‘Now,’ said the sergeant, ‘are you Dearborn, Gibbon, or Kettledrum? What have you been doing, and who are these girls?’

  Juan took off his long black gown and little black hat, and felt more comfortable. ‘Can I speak to you privately?’ he asked.

  Side by side, talking earnestly – the sergeant obviously surprised and even showing signs of admiration – they walked up and down beside the rampart of sandbags. Then Juan shook hands with the sergeant, and returned to Peony and Kuo.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, ‘we’ll find rickshaws somewhere or other. Good-bye, sergeant, and thanks very much.’

  ‘Now damn my eyes,’ said the sergeant, ‘he may be crazy, but he’s certainly got guts.’

  ‘What’s he been doing?’ asked the sentry with the hangover.

  ‘There are three of them,’ said the sergeant, ‘all newspaper correspondents. They’ve only been in Shanghai for a week, and they’ve all adopted Chinese orphan girls. But two of the girls – the two we saw – had to go into Chapei to look for their dying mother, and sent word that they couldn’t get out again. So Dearborn, Kettledrum, and Gibbon threw dice to see who should go and rescue them, and this fellow lost. Anyway, that’s the tale he told me, and he didn’t look a liar, did he?’

  Chapter 12

  Juan had decided to return to the New Celestial, for Min Cho-fu’s flat seemed overcrowded, though this was due rather to the emotional atmosphere than to the number of people there.

  Peony had collapsed just before they arrived. Whether opium was the trouble, or delayed concussion, Juan did not know, but he suspected the latter and insisted that Miss Min should take her in and put her to bed. Miss Min was most unwilling to do this, and her brother did not help matters by succumbing to an emotion so extreme and complex that he had to shut himself in the bathroom, where he was very sick. But Juan carried his point by opportunely remembering that Peony was the only person who could find Hikohoki.

  ‘He left the hotel on Monday,’ he said, ‘and we don’t know where he went. But he told Peony to come and see him if she wanted a job, and presumably he gave her an address. So if you’re going to look for him, your easiest way is to nurse Peony, and when she gets better she may tell you where he lives.’

  Kuo instantly perceived the force of this argument, and Peony was put to bed.

  ‘It’s funny,’ said Juan with a yawn. ‘I only missed him by a few minutes. After leaving that wretched monastery, I mean. I went back to the hotel, and they told me that Hikohoki had just gone. If I hadn’t got lost in the Chinese City I’d have seen him, and we might have saved ourselves a lot of bother.’

  ‘You got lost in the Chinese City, and because of that you failed to see Hikohoki?’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t I tell you?’

  ‘You got lost!’ Kuo repeated. ‘When you knew that every minute was valuable, you got lost! Oh, how stupid of you!’

  ‘My dear girl,’ said Juan, ‘I didn’t get lost on purpose, nor had I any reason to suppose that time was particularly valuable that morning. To lose one’s way is something that may happen to anyone.’

  Not to a grown mm,’ said Kuo. ‘A grown man shouldn’t lose himself in Shanghai, It is too stupid, too paltry.’

  Juan, who had anticipated praise and some display of affection from Kuo, in return for what he considered his creditable behaviour in Chapei, was very much taken aback by this unexpected rebuke. He saw no justice in it, and he felt very much inclined to answer hotly and at great length. But he controlled this foolish impulse, and merely said, ‘You must be tired, darling, you’d better get some sleep. I’ll go back to the New Celestial, I think.’

  There were, he thought, too many conflicting emotions in Min’s dat for him to find, much comfort there. But in his over-heated room in the hotel he slept undisturbed till five o’clock; and when he woke he found on his table a letter that his room-boy must have brought in without waking him. It was from Mrs Fannay-Brown to remind him of his promise to drink some sherry with them that evening.

  This suited his mood to perfection, for though he did not nurse any resentment against Kuo for her failure to appreciate his activities in Chapei, he nevertheless felt that he deserved some celebration of them. And to return to Min’s house would be to invite disappointment, tor Kuo Kuo would be thinking of Hikohoki, and the plan, and China’s salvation; Min would be balancing like a tearful acrobat between love of Peony and fear of his sister; and Miss Min – a pretty piece if one could get her away from her environment – would be simmering like a retort full of hydrochloric acid and iron filings. No, a sherry party was the better place, for though Mrs Fannay-Brown might prove to be a tedious hostess, the law of averages would surely bless her with one amusing guest.

  The Fannay-Browns lived not very far from Min Cho-fu, but on the other side of Bubbling Well Road, and in altogether superior style. A white-gowned butler showed Juan into a many-coloured L-shaped room where some eight or ten people were talking in loud, high-pitched voices.

  Fannay-Brown shook him warmly by the hand, and led him towards Mrs Fannay-Brown.

  She was a tallish, good-looking, untidily dressed woman, getting on for fifty, with protruding brown eyes and a long narrow chin. Her hair was brightly and artificially golden, and she wore a loosely dowing mauve dress that made a violent discord with every other colour in the room. Round her neck, and reaching below her waist, hung a rope of enormous pebbles of dull jade that rattled whenever she moved. At the moment of Juan’s entry she was lighting a cigarette from the stub of another, and throwing away the wrong one, she advanced to meet him, the rope of jade swinging
like an unskilfully handled lasso.

  ‘How nice of you to come!’ she exclaimed. ‘I haven’t seen a new face for donkey’s years. Dullest place on earth, Shanghai, and what a time of year to arrive! Just like Liverpool. Lord Street on a cold rainy day. Nastiest climate on earth except Shanghai. Dicky always wanted to ride at Aintree, but he’s not nearly good enough, of course. Still, he’s better than most men, and he knows a pony. You ought to buy Chang. You’re going to ride him, aren’t you? But come and meet some of these people. Ronny, Joyce, Harriet, everybody: this is Mr Motley, who’s just arrived from Brisbane. I always hope I’ll die on a ship, so much less trouble. Sorry we haven’t any other Canadians to meet you, ought to have thought of that before. – Edward, Alice, Ben: this is Mr Motley, just arrived from Canada. He’s going to ride Chang on Sunday. Edward’s a lawyer, he’ll get you out of any scrape, nastier the better. Now sit down everybody – Dicky, get Mr Motley a drink and give me another cigarette, will you? – because Ronny wants to go on with his story, don’t you Ronny?’

  Ronny was a young man with heavy black hair, a sallow complexion, very dark eyes, a square chin, and a pale grey suit. He appeared to have been ruffled by the interruption of his story, and resumed it in a rather loud and peremptory manner. Juan, already surprised at being taken for a Canadian who had come to Shanghai from Brisbane – but he realized that ladies’ geography was sometimes arbitrary – was still more astonished when he discovered that Ronny’s anecdote was a highly ornamented account of his own escape from Chapei: which had become the rescue of three sing-song girls who were an American journalist’s mistresses.

  ‘I heard it from Robertson, who was down at Honan Road this morning, and got it from the sergeant who let them in,’ said Ronny.

  ‘Charming boy,’ whispered Mrs Fannay-Brown. ‘Ronny, I mean. Thinks he’s artistic, but isn’t really. He takes photographs of Shanghai by night, but wants to do naked girls. Not art, just repression, but he doesn’t know it. Scotch, of course. Lots of them inhibited, that’s why they work so hard.’