The Keys of the Kingdom (41 page)

Dawn found them in a wilderness of rock and windblown sand, quite uninhabited, with no vegetation but scattered clumps of yellowish tuft grass. But within an hour, the sound of rushing water reached them and there, behind an escarpment, was the ruined citadel of Tou-en-lai, a huddle of ancient mud-brick houses on the cliff slope, surrounded by a crenellated wall, scarred and scorched by many sieges, the old glazed pillars of a Buddhist temple standing roofless, by the riverside.

Within the walls, the party dismounted, and Wai, without a word, entered his house, the only habitable dwelling. The morning air was raw. As the missionaries stood shivering on the hard mud courtyard, still roped together, a number of women and older men came crowding from the little caves which honeycombed the cliff and joined the soldiers in a chattering inspection of the captives.

‘We should be grateful for food and rest.’ Father Chisholm addressed the company at large.

‘Food and rest.’ The words were repeated, passed from mouth to mouth, amongst the onlookers, as an amusing curiosity.

The priest proceeded patiently. ‘You observe how weary is the missionary woman.’ Mrs Fiske was, indeed, half-fainting, on her feet. ‘Perhaps some well-disposed person would offer her hot tea.’

‘Tea … hot tea,’ echoed the mob, crowding closer.

They were now within touching distance of the missionaries and suddenly, with a simian acquisitiveness, an old man in the front rank snatched at the doctor’s watch-chain. It was the signal for a general spoliation – money, breviary, Bible, wedding ring, the priest’s old silver pencil – in three minutes the little group stood divested of every thing except their boots and clothing.

As the scramble ended, a woman’s eye was caught by the dull sparkle of a jet buckle on the band of Mrs Fiske’s hat. Immediately, she clutched at it. Aware, desperately, of her awful hazard, Mrs Fiske struggled, with a shrill defensive cry. But in vain. Buckle, hat and wig came off together in her assailant’s tenacious grasp. In a flash her bald head gleamed, like a bladder of lard, with grotesque and terrible nakedness, in the remorseless air.

There was a hush. Then a babble of derision broke, a paroxysm of shrieking mockery. Mrs Fiske covered her face with her hands and burst into scalding tears. The doctor attempting tremulously to cover his wife’s scalp with his handkerchief, saw the coloured silk snatched away. Poor woman, Father Chisholm thought, compassionately averting his eyes.

The sudden arrival of the corporal ended the hilarity as quickly as it had begun. The crowd scattered as the missionaries were led into one of the caves, which possessed the distinction of a hatch. This heavy ribbed door was slammed and fastened. They were left alone.

‘Well,’ said Father Chisholm after a pause, ‘at least we have this to ourselves.’

There was a longer silence. The little doctor, seated on the earth floor with his arm about his weeping wife, said dully: ‘It was scarlet fever. She caught it the first year we were in China. She was so sensitive about it. We took such pains never to let a soul know.’

‘And no one will know,’ the priest lied swiftly. ‘Joshua and I are silent as the grave. When we return to Pai-tan the – the damage can be repaired.’

‘You hear that, Agnes, dear? Pray stop crying, my dearest love.’

A slackening, then cessation of the muffled sobs. Mrs Fiske slowly raised her tear-stained eyes, red-rimmed in that ostrich orb.

‘You are very kind,’ she choked.

‘Meanwhile, they seem to have left me with this. If it can be of any service.’ Father Chisholm produced a large maroon bandana from his inner pocket.

She took it humbly, gratefully; tied it, like a mob-cap, with a butterfly knot behind her ear.

‘There now, my dear.’ Fiske patted her on the back. ‘Why, you look quite captivating again.’

‘Do I, dear?’ She smiled wanly, coquettishly. Her spirits lifted. ‘Now let’s see what we can do to put this wretched
yao-fang
in order.’

There was little they could do; the cave, no more than nine feet deep, held nothing but some broken crockery and its own dank gloom. The only light and air came from chinks in the barricaded entry. It was cheerless as a tomb. But they were worn out. They stretched themselves on the floor. They slept.

It was afternoon when they were wakened by the creak of the opening hatch. A shaft of fantastic sunshine penetrated the
yao-fang
, then a middle aged woman entered with a pitcher of hot water and two loaves of black bread. She stood watching as Father Chisholm handed one loaf to Dr Fiske, then silently broke the other between Joshua and himself. Something in her attitude, in her dark and rather sullen face, caused the priest to gaze at her attentively.

‘Why!’ He gave a start of recognition. ‘You are Anna!’ She did not answer. After sustaining his gaze, boldly, she turned and went out.

‘Do you know that woman?’ Fiske asked quickly.

‘I am not sure. But yes, I am sure. She was a girl at the mission who … who ran away.’

‘Not a great tribute to your teaching.’ For the first time Fiske spoke acidly.

‘We shall see.’

That night they all slept badly. The discomforts of their confinement grew hourly. They took turns lying next to the hatch, for the privilege of breathing in the damp moist air. The little doctor kept groaning: ‘That awful bread! Dear heaven, it’s tied my duodenum in a knot.’

At noon, the next day, Anna came again with more hot water and a bowl of millet. Father Chisholm knew better than to address her by name.

‘How long are we to be kept here?’

At first it seemed as though she would make no reply, then she said indifferently:

‘The two men have departed for Pai-tan. When they return you will be free.’

Dr Fiske interposed restively; ‘Cannot you procure better food for us and blankets? We will pay.’

She shook her head, scared off. But when she had retreated and let down the hatch she said, through the bars: ‘Pay me if you wish. It is not long to wait. It is nothing.’

‘Nothing.’ Fiske groaned again when she had gone. ‘I wish she had my insides.’

‘Don’t give way, Wilbur.’ From the darkness beyond Mrs Fiske exhorted him. ‘Remember, we’ve been through this before.’

‘We were young, then. Not old crocks on the verge of going home. And this Wai … he’s got his knife in us missionaries especially … for changing his good old order when crime paid.’

She persisted: ‘ We must all keep cheerful. Look, we’ve got to distract ourselves. Not talk – or you two will start quarrelling about religion. A game. The silliest we can think of! We’ll play ‘animal, vegetable or mineral.’ Joshua, are you awake? Good. Now listen and I’ll explain how it goes.’

They played the guessing game with heroic vigour. Joshua showed surprising aptitude. Then Mrs Fiske’s bright laugh cracked suddenly. They all fell very quiet. A dragging apathy succeeded; snatches of fitful sleep; uneasy, restless movements.

‘Dear God, they must surely be back by now.’ All next day that phrase fell incessantly from Fiske’s lips. His face and hands were hot to touch. Lack of sleep and air had made him feverish. But it was evening before a loud shouting and the barking of dogs gave indication of a late arrival. The silence which followed was oppressive.

At last, footsteps approached and the hatch was flung open. On being commanded, they scrambled out on their hands and knees. The freshness of the night air, the sense of space and freedom, induced a delirium, almost, of relief.

‘Thank heaven!’ Fiske cried. ‘We’re all right now.’

An escort of soldiers took them to Wai-Chu.

He was seated, in his dwelling, on a coir mat, a lamp and a long pipe beside him, the loftly dilapidated room impregnated with the faintly bitter reek of poppy. Beside him was a soldier with a soiled blood-stained rag tied round his forearm. Five others of his troop, including the corporal, stood by the walls with rattans in their hands.

A penetrating silence followed the introduction of the prisoners. Wai studied them with deep and meditative cruelty. It was a hidden cruelty, sensed rather than seen, behind the mask of his face.

‘The voluntary gift has not been paid.’ His voice was flat, unemotional. ‘When my men advanced to the city to receive it one was killed and the other wounded.’

A shiver passed over Father Chisholm. What he had dreaded had come to pass. He said:

‘Probably the message was never delivered. The bearer was afraid and ran away to his home in Shansee without going to Pai-tan.’

‘You are too talkative. Ten strokes on the legs.’

The priest had expected this. The punishment was severe, the edge of the long square rod, wielded by one of the soldiers, lacerating his shins and thighs.

‘The messenger was our servant,’ Mrs Fiske spoke with suppressed indignation, a high spot of colour burning on her pale cheek. ‘ It is not the Shang-Foo’s fault if he ran away.’

‘You are also too talkative. Twenty slaps on the face.’

She was beaten hard with the open palm on both cheeks while the doctor trembled and struggled beside her.

‘Tell me, since you are so wise. If your servant ran away why should my emissaries be waited upon and ambushed?’

Father Chisholm wished to say that, in these times, the Pai-tan garrison was perpetually on the alert and would shoot any of Wai’s men on sight. He knew this to be the explanation. He judged it wiser to hold his tongue.

‘Now you are not so talkative. Ten strokes on the shoulders for keeping unnatural silence.’

He was beaten again.

‘Let us return to our missions.’ Fiske threw out his hands, gesticulating, like an agitated woman. ‘I assure you on my solemn oath that you will be paid without the slightest hesitation.’

‘I am not a fool!’

‘Then send another of your soldiers to Lantern Street with a message which I will write. Send him now, immediately.’

‘And have him slaughtered also? Fifteen blows for assuming that I am a fool.’

Under the blows the doctor burst into tears. ‘ You are to be pitied,’ he blubbered. ‘I forgive you but I pity, I pity you.’

There was a pause. It was almost possible to observe dull flicker of gratification in Wai’s contracted pupils. He turned to Joshua. The lad was healthy and strong. He desperately needed recruits.

‘Tell me. Are you prepared to make atonement by enlisting under my banner?’

‘I am sensible of the honour.’ Joshua spoke steadily. ‘But it is impossible.’

‘Renounce your foreign devil god and you will be spared.’

Father Chisholm endured an instant of cruel suspense, preparing himself for the pain and humiliation of the boy’s surrender.

‘I will die gladly for the true Lord of Heaven.’

‘Thirty blows for being a contumacious wretch.’

Joshua did not utter a cry. He took the punishment with eyes cast down. Not a moan escaped him. But every blow made Father Chisholm wince.

‘Now will you advise your servant to repent?’

‘Never.’ The priest answered firmly, his soul illuminated by the boy’s courage.

‘Twenty blows on the legs for reprehensible obduracy.’

At the twelfth blow, delivered on the front of his shins, there was a sharp brittle crack. An agonizing pain shot through the broken limb. Oh Lord, thought Francis, that’s the worst of old bones.

Wai considered them with an air of finality. ‘ I cannot continue to shield you. If the money does not arrive tomorrow I have a foreboding that some evil may befall you.’

He dismissed them blankly. Father Chisholm could barely limp across the courtyard. Back in the
yao-fang
Mrs Fiske made him sit down and, kneeling beside him stripped off his boot and sock. The doctor, somewhat recovered, then set the broken limb.

‘I’ve no splint … nothing but these rags.’ His voice had a high and tremulous ring. ‘It’s a nasty fracture. If you don’t rest it’ll turn compound. Feel how my hands are shaking. Help us, dear Lord! We’re going home next month. We’re not so –’

‘Please, Wilbur.’ She soothed him with a quiet touch. He completed dressing the injury in silence. Then she added: ‘We must try to keep our spirits up. If we give in now, what’s going to happen to us tomorrow?’

Perhaps it was well that she prepared them.

In the morning the four were led out into the courtyard, which was lined with the population of Tou-en-lai, and humming with the promise of a spectacle. Their hands were tied behind their backs and a bamboo-pole passed between their arms. Two soldiers then seized the ends of each spit and, raising the prisoners, marched them in procession round the arena six times, in narrowing circles, bringing up before the bullet-pocked façade of the house where Wai was seated.

Sick with the pain of his broken leg, Father Chisholm felt, through the stupid ignominy, a terrible dejection, amounting to despair, that the creatures of God’s hand should make a careless festival out of the blood and tears of others. He had to still the dreadful whisper that God could never fashion men like this … that God did not exist.

He saw that several of the soldiers had their rifles, he hoped that a merciful end was near. But after a pause, at a sign from Wai, they were turned about and frog-marched down the steep path, past some beached sampans on a narrow spit of shingle, to the river. Here, before the reassembled crowd, they were dragged through the shallows and each secured with cord to a mooring stake in five feet of running water.

The switch from the threat of sudden execution was so unexpected, the contrast to the filthy squalour of the cave so profound, it was impossible to escape a sensation of relief. The shock of the water restored them. It was cold from the mountain springs, and clear as crystal. The priest’s leg ceased to pain him. Mrs Fiske smiled feebly. Her courage was heartrending.

Her lips shaped the words: ‘At least we shall get clean.’

But after half an hour a change set in. Father Chisholm dared not look at his companions. The river, at first so refreshing, gradually grew colder, colder, losing its gentle numbness, compressing their bodies and lower limbs in an algid vice. Each heartbeat, strained to force the blood through frozen arteries, was a throb of pulsing agony. The head, engorged, floated dismebodied, in a reddish haze. With his swimming senses the priest still strove to find the reason of this torture, which now he dimly recollected as ‘ the water ordeal’, an intermittent sadism, hallowed by tradition, first conceived by the tyrant Tchang. It was a punishment well suited to Wai’s purpose, since it probably expressed his lingering hope that the ransom might still be paid. Francis suppressed a groan. If this were true, their sufferings were not yet over.