The Sand Pebbles (77 page)

Gillespie was feeling the burden of his vigorous manhood, she knew. What he loved was threatened and boys had gone out to fight and defend it. Cho-jen, whom they both loved, had gone out. All that she had tried to say in comfort to Gillespie had only made it harder on him.

The dancing lamp flame steadied. Shirley opened her eyes.

“Poor Walter,” she said aloud.

Craddock looked up. “You’ve become very fond of him, haven’t you?” he asked. “Tai-tai saw it beginning. It pleased her.”

“Do you think so? I respect Walter immensely,” Shirley said.

She did not feel as shocked as she thought she should at Craddock’s observation. For some reason, it brought Jake Holman to her mind. She saw with sudden clarity that Walter Gillespie was already the man
Jake Holman might have become, under a more kindly star. In the first period at China Light she had seen little of Gillespie and she had thought of him as conventionally sexless, the way women felt toward preachers. But now, thrown with him as a fellow teacher, living with him like brother and sister in the Craddock household, sharing the grief for Tai-tai and the love for Cho-jen, she knew that Walter Gillespie was a very good man indeed. She had been leaning on him more than she realized.

“Walter is fighting a feeling that he should have gone with Cho-jen to the battle,” she said. “That sailor, Mr. Holman, was in the battle, and I know he didn’t want to be.” She sighed. “I used to think it was hardest being a woman. But it can be hard being a man, too.”

“It is just hard being young,” Craddock said.

They went straight up the center of the river. Farren held the tiller and Holman sat beside him with the motor popping along and making a gasoline smell in the damp night air. Farren kept his wounded leg stuck straight out. Several times other boats hailed them in Chinese and they ignored it, but no one shot at them. Lt. Collins, in fresh whites, stood like a silent ghost in the bow. Bronson sat as near Lt. Collins as he could. In the waist, muttering curses, Crosley was trying to sleep. Crosley had a painful spear slash along his ribs.

“The skipper’s bringing us luck. He’s got a charmed life,” Farren whispered. “We’ll nip in there and grab them people and get out again, while the slopeheads are still down for the count.”

Holman did not answer. He was thinking that he would see Shirley, and the thought warmed his blood. He did not think the missionaries would come away. It was against common sense and all that he could imagine, but he felt excited and hopeful. The fire had taken his bunk and locker, including all his money. All he owned was the dungarees he was wearing. It made everything seem free and possible.

Above Paoshan Farren slowed to half speed and eased the boat into the creek. Weeping willows overhung the stone banks and he had to steer chancily by patches of star glimmer on the black water. The bow wave washed against the banks like a steady whisper following
them. Here and there dogs barked and one time ducks quacked loudly. All the houses were dark. Farren kept shifting his leg.

“Damn thing keeps itching under the bandage,” he said.

At the China Light jetty Lt. Collins waited while Holman and Bronson jumped out to moor the boat. Then he gave Farren his wristwatch and instructed him very sternly.

“If I am not back within two hours, return to the ship,” he said. “Tell Mr. Bordelles the primary mission has failed.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Farren said unhappily.

He would obey, all right. This was war. Crosley begged to go along. He insisted his rib wound was well bandaged and did not hamper him. Crosley had very good spirit.

“Crosley’s our best BAR man, sir,” Bronson put in.

Bronson was inclined to be officious. He was also right. Lt. Collins climbed up on the jetty, favoring his right ankle.

“Very well, Crosley,” he said. “Fall in behind me, the three of you.”

He led the way in silence. Ahead across the fields China Light crouched squatly black, like a fortress against the starred sky. He had to watch his step on the narrow dike. The fields were deep mud. Night birds swooped for insects above his head. They made a low bullroar of unseen wings.

Time’s winged chariot
, he thought, and wondered why.

He tried to hurry and trod heavily on a pebble and felt his weakened ankle turn sharply inside the bandages. It stabbed. He went on without breaking stride, trying not to limp, damning in his mind the successive jolts of pain. The great mission gates were closed, but dim light glowed in the gatehouse. A man came out of the small door to meet them. When he spoke, Lt. Collins realized that he was one of the missionaries in Chinese clothing. Gillespie, his name was.

“Lt. Collins? You should never have come here,” Gillespie said. “It will be best for all of us if you will go away at once.”

His low voice was angry. It roused Lt. Collins’ old angers.

“You must get out of here, without delay,” he said. “Have you heard yet what happened at Nanking?”

“Yes. But we are safe here. Only you endanger us.”

Lt. Collins heard the disgusted murmur from the men behind him. That was comment enough. Crisply, his voice edged with the pain of his ankle, he told Gillespie about the general evacuation order and about the boom fight.

“No matter what you thought before, this changes it,” he said. “We killed them. We took their face. They’ll be wild for revenge.”

Gillespie was shaking his head. He seemed unable to speak.

“Are there any armed guards here? Where are the others of you? Speak up, man!”

“All our militia went to the battle. I was hoping to see them come back here victorious instead of you,” Gillespie said flady. “I can speak for the others. They will not go with you.”

“They must tell me that themselves. Take me to where they are.”

“Listen. You’ve done enough harm.” Gillespie gestured savagely. “Go on. Get out of here. You have no business here.”

“If you force me, I will break down doors until I find them. It is my duty.”

“It is
not
your duty! Listen!” Controlling his anger, Gillespie told an absurd story. They had declared themselves stateless persons, like the White Russians. They had sent their names to Geneva, requesting Nansen passports. “We mailed a copy to the consul,” Gillespie finished.

“I know nothing of that.”

“You do now.”

“No, I do not!” Lt. Collins’ patience broke. “Come along, men,” he said over his shoulder.

Gillespie went grudgingly ahead of them. Bronson came up to Lt. Collins’ right elbow.

“Is your ankle worse, sir? I see you limping,” he said solicitously. “Will you lean on my arm, sir?”

“No. Fall back,” Lt. Collins said shortly.

He had not yet forgiven Bronson. He began letting himself limp openly. The pain in his ankle was atrocious. Gillespie led them through the school quadrangle and into the Chinese section. No lights showed.

“This is the place,” he said. “At least leave your men outside.”

It was a Chinese house flush against the much higher compound wall. In a clear space to one side was what looked like the frame and coping of a well. The house made three sides of a courtyard and a head-high mud wall made the front of it. They had to turn sharply just inside the gate to go around a brick spirit screen.

“Detail, halt!” Lt. Collins ordered. “Wait here in the courtyard.”

Dim light rosed one half-open window. Lt. Collins followed Gillespie through a door on that side. It was a small parlor with American furniture. The dim light was from a wick burning in a saucer of oil on the table. It threw leaping shadows and made the room smell scorched. Two people in Chinese clothing stood up. One was old Craddock. The woman was young. Eckert, her name was.

“He won’t take my word for it. Tell him you’re not leaving,” Gillespie said. “I’ll get him a copy of our declaration.”

He went on into the next room. Lt. Collins set his rifle butt down and clasped the muzzle with both hands. That way he could take some weight off his throbbing ankle. He stared grimly at the girl and the old man.

“Well,” he said. “Tell me.”

Holman wandered about the courtyard. He had a feeling he had been there before. There were two trees leafy above. The surface was packed earth with flat stones to take rain drip from the overhanging eaves. Holman was wishing he could have a chance to ask Gillespie about that paper they had all signed. He had not understood about that.

Crosley was crouching at the half-open window. He motioned Holman and Bronson to join him. They all crouched there, leaning on their rifles. Lt. Collins was talking in a flat, hard voice.

“I know you people do not wish to be the instruments of shame to your country,” he said. “If you have no care for yourselves, I appeal to your loyalty.”

“We are serving a higher loyalty,” Craddock said.

“There
is
no higher loyalty!”

They faced each other in there, frozen. She was wearing pale-blue
Chinese jacket and trousers. She looked soft and shadowy and very beautiful, in the dim light. She made a fire in his stomach and a hurt in his throat and a tingle along the backs of his hands.

Jesus! She’s even prettier than I remembered
, he thought.

“I suppose you will tell me next that God has told you to stay here,” Lt. Collins said finally. “Every padded cell in America is filled with people who talk to God. How are you people any different?”

“Hah!” Crosley said under his breath.

“Read this paper,” Gillespie said, holding it out. “By this signed declaration we have temporarily renounced nationality in itself. Are you not able to
understand
that?”

“I understand it to be impossible. No sane person would try.”

“Your uniform now gives you no authority over us and no responsibility for us,” Gillespie said tightly. “Here. Are you afraid to read it?” He thrust the paper out again and Lt. Collins took it. “If you like, we’ll sign it again in your presence,” Gillespie said.

Holman stood slowly upright. He felt dizzy. I
can sign that paper myself
, he thought.
However it works, it will work on me too. That’s how I’ll stay here!
He wanted to walk out his leaping excitement, but he was afraid that he would miss something.

“Hah!” Crosley breathed.

Stronger light flared at the window. Holman knelt again. Lt. Collins was burning the paper in the flame of the little oil lamp on the table.

They were strong men clashing and she was afraid. In the light of the burning paper, Gillespie’s face looked savage. Shirley knew she had to intervene.

“Lt. Collins, will you excuse us to talk privately for a moment?” she asked.

He nodded. He dropped the paper flaming into the oil but made no move to leave. Instead, he resumed his curiously still, pitched-forward leaning stance on his rifle. From the first, his face had been white and thin-lipped, like a mask of leashed anger.

“In Mr. Craddock’s study, then,” she said. “Come, Walter.”

She took his arm, trying to smile away his frown, and they followed
Craddock into the study. She closed the door. It was too dark to see each other. They whispered their words.

“Of course we will refuse to go,” Craddock said.

“Of course. If we go, we make all that the Chungs have been saying true,” Gillespie said. “We make all that we and Cho-jen have been saying into a lie. We would betray Cho-jen.”

“We have to make that officer understand,” Shirley said.

“His kind would rather die than understand.”

“Please, Walter. You’ve been antagonizing him,” she said. “If you will just let Mr. Craddock reason with him.”

“Let’s just go through the back rooms and outside through Ting’s house,” Gillespie said. “The people outside West Gate will hide us. Leave him standing in there with his teeth in his mouth.”

“No. We must persuade him to go away,” Craddock said. “The boys might come back. There would be bloodshed.”

“You’re right, of course.” Gillespie sighed. “One thing, though. Suppose he will not be persuaded? He has three armed men with him.” Gillespie’s arm trembled under her hand. “What if he threatens to take us forcibly? Let’s decide that.”

“He wouldn’t dare!”

“He would dare. And if he does, I’m afraid I’ll fight,” Gillespie said somberly.

“If we must, we can simply come in here to confer again,” Craddock said. “Then we can escape through Ting’s house.”

Gillespie agreed doubtfully. They began discussing how they would reason with Lt. Collins.

“Don’t mention God. It will only infuriate him,” Gillespie warned.

The damned paper was black ash flecks on the oil. Lt. Collins leaned on his rifle. He wanted to sit down, but they had not invited him to do so. He knew he should soak his ankle and rebandage it. Most of the pain was because the bandage was too tight for the new swelling. He would not ask them for hospitality. Besides, there was no time. Time!
Damn
the ankle and
damn
the loose pebble on the dike!
Damn
the farmer who pitched it up there and
damn
whatever it was that made pebbles!
Damn
the luck!

No, the luck is good, he thought. At least they are unguarded. I have been too harsh, because my ankle hurts. I will reason with them. But
San Pablo
had fought the great fight of her history that day and these missionaries were not, repeat not, going to rob that fight of its meaning, his thoughts insisted. He was going to give them the benefit of the doubt and consider that they were religious maniacs. Somewhere behind their careful words they had to be hiding a crazy God.

They were taking forever in that room. There was no time.
Come out, damn you!
he willed at the closed door.

First Crosley and then Bronson had risen and gone away, bored by the talk. Holman still crouched there. Craddock was doing the talking. Shirley was standing back in the shallows, close to Gillespie. She kept putting her hand on his arm and half-smiling up at him, as if she were afraid of something.

Lt. Collins was being very polite now. So was Craddock. The old man looked gray and shrunken and his voice was gentle. Holman could not understand all that they were saying. Some Bolshevik outfit in Paoshan, the Chungs, was claiming that the missionaries could not legally give up their personal treaty privileges. So they had temporarily given up nationality itself, the way you took off a coat when it was too warm.