Chapter III: Part 3

"I'll plead guilty to disturbing my neighbours sometimes by singing college songs and such things. But I have none of them here and no music for the accompanist."

"Just what we want; something lively. If there's a chorus, we'll all join in. Give me an idea how it goes and I can chord for you."

Beauchamp ran his fingers over the keys while Sinclair hummed or lilted the tune. Soon the proper chord was struck. Sinclair repeated the words of the chorus till all got them. Then he sang a rollicking college song. When he reached the chorus all joined in, and for the first time the walls of the old Dutch fort and the listening palms and oleanders and magnolias heard the jolly abandon of "The Old Ontario Strand."

When the chorus was reached the second time, Sinclair relinquished the leadership of the air to Miss MacAllister. She took it as if by prearrangement, while he dropped into his rightful place and supplied the undertone of a bass powerful enough to balance the voices of all the rest of the company.

When it was finished there was an outbreak of applause and even cheers, which showed that all reserve had disappeared and the company were prepared to give themselves up with childish delight to singing. Another college song was sung with the same spirit as the first, and Sinclair was pressed to lead still another.

"I will," he said at last, "if you will allow me to choose one as characteristic of our French Canadian people as those we were favoured with by Miss MacAllister are of the Highland Scotch."

In response to the general consent he sang some verses of--

"En roulant ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule,"

and a number of the company joined in the simple refrain. The song which had so often echoed on lake and stream, by the evening campfire, where the paddle dipped, or in the frosty stillness of the snow-laden forests of the north rang out through the scented darkness of the warm tropic night.

A number of other songs were rendered by different members of the party. Then Sinclair was called for again.

"I am afraid that my repertoire has come very near the point of being exhausted," he said. "I have only those songs the words of which I can remember, and the selection is not very choice."

This time it was a plaintive negro melody of the Sunny South. Again Miss MacAllister found herself singing heartily with the rest in the refrain, and after the first verse leading the chorus while Sinclair sang bass. When the song was done she suddenly said to herself:

"What a silly I am making of myself! I came in here determined to get even with that doctor. And here I am singing with him and for him like a sissy in a Sunday-school concert. He can do his own singing from now on. I'll pay him back yet."

The rest were urging Sinclair to sing again, when Miss MacAllister said:

"Dr. Sinclair has shown wonderful versatility in his choice of songs this evening. English, French, negro, he sings them all with equal facility. I wonder if he would not favour us with a Canadian Indian song. I have never heard any of their music. I should so love to have the opportunity. Will you not sing us one, Dr. Sinclair?"

Her face wore an expression of childlike innocence and interest. But McLeod thought he saw a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Mr. MacAllister looked at his daughter with a puzzled face and shook his head a little. The consul eyed her doubtfully, as though trying to fathom the purpose behind this request. He saw nothing but the appearance of almost infantile guilelessness. Then he heard Sinclair saying:

"Certainly, Miss MacAllister. I am happy to do anything in my power to serve you. Only it is a little hard on Mr. Beauchamp to ask him even to chord to a type of music he may never have heard before."

"Thank you so much, Dr. Sinclair. I am all anxiety to hear you."

Then she added:

"I am sure Mr. Beauchamp will be able to accompany you. He is a man of infinite resource in music." For she was afraid that Sinclair's concern about placing the consul in a difficult position was only an attempt to provide a loop-hole for his own escape.

A buzz of conversation broke out in the room while Sinclair bent over the instrument, softly humming a slow, stately measure, and the consul's fingers felt for the harmonious chords. Soon the voice and the chords were moving together in harmony.

"That may be an Indian tune," said Beauchamp, "but it sounds remarkably like certain bars from an old sixteenth-century mass I had to practise when a boy until my fingers were nearly worn out."

"Perhaps the Indians learned it from the early Roman Catholic missionaries," was the quick reply. "In any case, I fancy it is the sound of the language Miss MacAllister wishes to hear rather than the music."

"If you like, I shall play the tune for you. I remember it perfectly."

"Thank you, I prefer the chords."

Sinclair straightened himself, and the buzz of conversation instantly ceased. Then his voice rolled forth to the slow, solemn air, words as melodious as the notes of the music. At their first sound the consul's head ducked below the level of the piano, which hid him from most in the room. Sinclair gave him a vicious dig in the ribs, but sang on without the quiver of an eyelid. The full vowel sounds of the unknown language brought out to perfection the tones of his rich bass voice.

His eyes glanced around the room. All were listening intently, and all, save Commander Gardenier, had their eyes on him. He thought that he could detect a grim smile on the naval officer's averted face. Miss MacAllister had a keen look--was it a suspicious look?--in her eyes.

Under cover of the applause which followed the consul turned on him:

"You have the nerve to pass a chorus from a Greek tragedy on a company like this for a Red Indian war-song."

"I plead guilty," replied Sinclair. "But I had to do something or be again held up to ridicule as I was at dinner. I thought that you were the only one likely to recognize it and I knew that you would not betray me."

"I acknowledge that you had to do something. For some reason Miss MacAllister seems bound to make game of you. She deserves what you have given her, and I'll not give you away. But it was nervy just the same." And the consul laughed indulgently as he turned away.

Miss MacAllister did not join in the general applause. But when it was done she said gravely:

"Thank you, Dr. Sinclair, for gratifying my whim to hear a song in the Indian language. I had no idea that it would be so beautiful. Thank you very much."

Sinclair's face flushed as he replied:

"I am only too glad to have been able to do anything which has pleased you." At the same moment he felt a pang of remorse for the deception.

He had not long to think of it when he heard Mrs. MacAllister saying to Commander Gardenier:

"What a barbarous jargon to be called a language!"

"Yes," replied the officer drily, "but I have heard a good many others more barbarous."

Then Thomson, the missionary, remarked in his slow way:

"It--some--way--seems--to--me--that--I--have --heard--some--thing--like--that--before."

Sinclair had to act quickly:

"You were a missionary once among the Indians of Bruce Peninsula, were you not?"

"Yes--I--was."

"You probably heard it there."

"Well--perhaps--I--did."

Some of the guests rose to depart, and their hostess rose with them. Before they had time to begin to say farewell, Carteret said loudly enough to be heard by all in the room:

"Mrs. Beauchamp, before we go, may we not hear Mr. De Vaux sing again? I know that we should all be delighted to hear him."

"I am afraid that we are imposing on Mr. De Vaux," replied the hostess, who realized the condition De Vaux ordinarily reached by that hour after a dinner. "I think that he is tired. He has done his part so well this evening that it seems unfair to ask him for any more."

"I am sure, Mrs. Beauchamp, that Mr. De Vaux will not feel it a hardship to sing again. He is our foremost vocalist in Formosa. We want him to uphold the honour of the local talent. Mr. De Vaux, will you not sing for us 'Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep'?"

"Lord! ... Mr. Carteret--ladies and gentlemen--how good of you to ask me! ... By----! ... Bless my soul, I mean! ... It is good of you.... I'm afraid.... I'm not in very good voice. But since you insist--I'll try.... By----! ... I mean 'pon my honour, I shall!"

"Shall I play your accompaniment, De Vaux?" said the consul, in response to an appealing look from his wife.

"How good of you, Beauchamp! ... By----! ... 'Pon my soul, I mean--it is!"

Purple-faced, perspiring, steadying himself by the piano, The Honourable Lionel Percival Dudley De Vaux sang, in a series of high-toned asthmatic gasps, "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep."

Then the guests said their farewells and, preceded by natives carrying lanterns, they began to move off into the warm aromatic darkness of the southern night.

*VIII*

*SINCLAIR'S OPPORTUNITY*

Sinclair and McLeod were awaiting their opportunity to say good-night when one of the consul's Chinese servants hastily entered and handed his master a letter:

"One boy b'long Kai Bok-su come Keelung side, one piecee chit new sick-boy-man can catchee."

"All right, boy," replied the consul. "Dr. Sinclair, here's a letter for you from Dr. MacKay."

The doctor cut the letter open and read:

"CHINESE CAMP, LOAN-LOAN, NEAR KEELUNG,
"Aug. 5th, 1884.

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

"As you are aware, a battle is raging. A number of the Chinese have been killed. Many more are wounded. The end is not yet. They have no doctors but native fakirs. They have no medicines, no instruments, no knowledge of surgery. There is dreadful suffering. Will you help? Never a better opportunity to serve humanity and win the Chinese.

"The consul will give you passports. The bearer of this will guide you. A Hoa will come with you as far as Taipeh and secure a permit from the governor. Mrs. MacKay and Dr. Bergmann will give you a free hand with the Mission's stock of medicines, and will help you to pack them. Will you come?

"Yours,
"G. L. MACKAY."

Without a word Sinclair handed the open letter to the consul, who had now bidden farewell to the rest of the guests. He read it quickly and looked up:

"You are going?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"First launch in the morning."

"Good! I'll have your papers ready."

"Thank you, Mr. Beauchamp. Good-night."

"I'll send the constable over to MacKay's with the papers. Take care of yourself. Good-night, doctor. Good-night, McLeod."

* * * * *

The first faint rose of dawn was showing in the sky behind the great bulk of the Taitoon Mountains when Sinclair stepped out on the broad verandah of the missionary's bungalow, ready for his journey. The Chinese student who was to guide him was already there. A coolie bearing two round baskets containing the medicines, instruments, and other necessaries, balanced on the end of his long bamboo carrying pole, came round the corner of the house.

The iron gate at the foot of the garden clicked sharply. A vigorous step sounded on the gravelled walk. An erect, soldierly figure stepped out of the darkness into the light streaming from the doorway, rapped his heels together, saluted, and handed Dr. Sinclair a packet of letters.

"Good-morning, Sergeant Gorman. You're sharp on time."

"No credit to me, sir! It's the consul, sir! The divil himself wud have to get up in the morning before he went to bed at night to catch the consul late."

There was no mistaking Sergeant Gorman's native land. Sinclair laughed as he said:

"I suppose these are my passports."

"Right you are, sir! But wud you moind lookin' at the last one furst, for, widout army conceit in meself, it's the most important of thim all."

Sinclair opened it and read:

"H. B. M. CONSULATE, TAMSUI, Aug. 6th, 1884.

"DEAR DR. SINCLAIR:

"I am presuming on your good nature to make a request of you. Will you accept of Sergeant Gorman's assistance in your volunteer Red Cross Service? Ever since the cannon fire began yesterday morning, he has been aching to get into the field of action. Your going is an opportunity. He will not be an encumbrance. He has been at various times surgeon's assistant and hospital sergeant. He speaks pidgin, and knows quite a bit of vernacular. Commander Gardenier will spare me a man to take his place. Feeling sure that you will grant my request as soon as you read it, I have enclosed his passports with yours.

"Wishing you a safe and speedy return, I am,
"Your obedient servant,
"H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP."

Sinclair read between the lines. It was not merely the desire to gratify Sergeant Gorman's passion to be in any fighting which might be handy which had actuated the consul. It was solicitude for himself. He was a stranger in the island. He did not know the language. He had never been nearer war than the annual camp of a brigade of Canadian militia. This resourceful Irishman, with more than twenty years of varied service, mostly in the Orient and among Oriental peoples, would simply be invaluable to him. The consul had been up all night arranging for his convenience and safety. More to himself than to any one else he exclaimed:

"Beauchamp's a trump!"

"An' the right bower at that!" interjected Gorman.

Sinclair dashed into MacKay's study, scribbled off a hasty note of thanks, and was out again before the sergeant had finished congratulating himself on his good fortune.

"We must be off. There goes the launch's whistle," said Sinclair, as he swung off with his long, powerful strides, which put Gorman to his best gait and made the natives drop into their peculiar little jogging trot.

Although the day had scarcely broken when they left the house, and it was but a few hundred yards down the steep hill to the beach, the impatient sun of the South had already sprung into the heavens when they reached the little jetty at which the launch lay. A Hoa, the chief Chinese assistant of Dr. MacKay, and McLeod were already there.

"Hallo, Mac!" exclaimed the doctor. "I thought you would be sleeping yet. It's more than decent of you to turn out so early to see me off."

"I am going with you as far as Twatutia," replied McLeod. "The Chinese are so excited over this war that they have not forwarded part of our cargo. I am going up to see what persuasives I can apply to the compradore. We have to sail by this afternoon's tide and want to take a full cargo. We may not get another chance for a while."

"I certainly am in luck this morning," said Sinclair. "You to keep me company as far as Twatutia; A Hoa to get my passports vised, and Sergeant Gorman to act as my bodyguard and be generally responsible for my safety and good conduct."

By this time the two friends and the Chinese preacher had found for themselves as comfortable positions as possible under the awning which covered the decks of the little launch and sheltered them from the rays of the sun.

The launch was threading its way through a fleet of junks which were hasting to get out to sea with the ebbing tide. Some had already hoisted their huge, brown, bat-wing sails and turned their watchful eyes towards the open sea. Some were just lifting their anchors, while priests from the neighbouring temple rowed around them in boats with beating drums and droning pipes, to frighten away the demons, propitiate the goddess of the sea, secure for the sailors a prosperous voyage, undisturbed by the French, and incidentally to get for themselves and their temple a substantial contribution. Some had not yet finished taking cargo, and their crews were working with feverish haste to get loaded in time not to miss the last of the ebb. From them all came the ceaseless shrill, nasal shouting of the Chinese seamen as they pulled at the ropes, or heaved up the anchor or hauled away at the tackle hoisting their cargo on board.

It was all intensely interesting to Sinclair, who never wearied of studying human life, especially when it presented types and phases which were new and strange to him. But he was not so much interested in the Chinese as to fail to notice the large house, with its cool-looking upper and lower verandahs, looking out on the river, in which the MacAllisters were quartered. He wondered if the maiden who had teased him so were awake and plotting some new mischief to make him or some one else uncomfortable. Or was she sleeping as peacefully as if she had never done a naughty deed in all her bright young life? It was with a start, as if a guilty secret had been discovered, that he heard McLeod's voice saying:

"I suppose your Highland girl is having her beauty sleep. I never saw any one who to my mind needed it less."

Sinclair was annoyed that McLeod so often seemed to read his thoughts. It was a little tartly that he replied:

"Are you still harping at that? If I were a suitor for that young lady's hand, I should have to look upon you as a rival, you seem so smitten with her."

"Not the slightest danger, Doc. The fact that a fellow admires a girl's looks or style doesn't necessarily mean that he has fallen in love with her. Oh, no! I have my own dreams of a trip I hope to make next year to Prince Edward Island, and if I come back to the China Coast I'll not come back alone. That's good enough for me. I admire Miss MacAllister. I think she's splendid. But falling in love with her! Not the slightest notion! Any interest I have in her is on your account."

"I'm sorry, Mac. I shouldn't have said what I did. I knew that you were as true as steel."

"It's all right, doctor. I've been jollying you too much. And the way she acts sometimes makes it a little hard to bear. But you'll win out in the end."

"I do not know about that," said Sinclair, somewhat gloomily. "The way she treated me last night did not look much like it."

"Never mind that. She would not treat you like that if she were not taking more interest in you than in any one else at present. She doesn't know just what is the matter with herself. That is the way she is taking to work it off. She'll change after a bit."

"I'll yield to your superior knowledge of the ways of women," said the doctor, with a laugh which had but little mirth in it. "It may be all right. Just the same, it doesn't look good to me.... Here comes Sergeant Gorman. I had better see my passports, and get him to instruct A Hoa what is to be done when we get to Taipeh."

Opening the packet, he found copies of passports in English, French, and Chinese. One addressed to the French Commander read:

"HER BRITANNIC MAJESTY'S CONSULATE,
"TAMSUI, August 6th, 1884.

"_To the Officer in Chief Command of the French Forces at Keelung_:

"The bearer of this paper, Doctor Donald Sinclair, a British subject, has volunteered his services as a medical doctor to the sick and wounded of the Chinese army, at present engaged before Keelung. He will observe strict neutrality, and will be equally ready to perform humane offices and render skilled medical and surgical assistance to any of the French troops, should circumstances bring that within his power. Wherefore I, the undersigned consul for Great Britain at Tamsui, do beg the Officer in Command of the French Forces at Keelung, to accord to the said Doctor Donald Sinclair protection and liberty to perform his offices of mercy, in accordance with the terms of the Geneva Convention. He will be accompanied by one European assistant, likewise a British subject, Sergeant John Gorman, and by one or more Chinese assistants, all wearing the badge of the Red Cross.

"H. R. L. BEAUCHAMP,
"Her Britannic Majesty's Consul."

Passports of a similar tenor were addressed to the Chinese authorities.

"Sergeant Gorman, you know Chinese. Tell A Hoa what we want him to do when we get to Taipeh. He is to get these vised and, if possible, to get a special permit from the governor. It will carry more weight than the passports."

"Very good, sir! I'll make him understand."

Sergeant Gorman's mastery of the language was not perfect. But the Chinese preacher required little instruction. He knew better than either Sinclair or the sergeant what should be done. Before becoming a Christian he had been private secretary to a mandarin in an official position at Pekin. He had travelled much on the mainland as well as in Formosa, and was well acquainted with official procedure both in peace and in war. Scarcely had Sergeant Gorman begun his explanations when his "Ho! ... Ho! ... An-ni ho! ... Put-tsi ho!" (Good! good! That's good! Very good!) showed that he fully understood what was expected of him.

*IX*

*A QUIET LIFE*

Meanwhile McLeod and Sinclair were studying the sergeant. He was a man of perhaps forty-five years, but could pass for much younger. Five feet eight or nine inches in height, he was broad-shouldered and sturdily built. No matter where he might be or how dressed, there could be no mistaking that he had been a soldier. Long military training spoke in every movement. His thick hair was a red-brown, with the emphasis on the red. So was his heavy, fierce-looking moustache. So were his bristling eyebrows. So were his eyes. His face, save where it was ordinarily covered by the band of his sun-helmet, was pretty nearly the same shade.

He talked rapidly; very rapidly; so rapidly that his words often stumbled over one another in their eagerness to get out, until he actually stuttered. When he tried, he spoke English with just enough Irish accent to make it sweet on his tongue. But when he didn't try, and that was most of the time, the brogue was rich and thick. Nearly always he had the peculiarly Irish trick of repeating the last words of a closing sentence.

"How long has Gorman been here?" asked Sinclair in a low tone.

"Only a couple of months," replied McLeod. "Came over with us from Amoy."

"How does it come that a sergeant with his record of service should end up by being consulate constable in an out-of-the-way corner like Tamsui?"

"Search me! I can't tell you."

"Probably the old story of a man who has served his Queen and country well and then been dropped, to live or die wherever he may chance to fall."

"Yes, and none of the blockheads who have commanded him have sense enough to know how much good service they could get out of a man like that, if they would only give him a chance to rise. Instead they turn him adrift like a worn-out horse."

"Perhaps he has a history behind him. It seems to me that most men out here, except you and I, Mac, have histories. Here he comes. Perhaps he will talk."

The sergeant crossed the little deck, stood at attention, and saluted:

"I have the honour to report, sir, that I have given the Chinese, A Hoa, the instructions you commanded and that he seems to understand them very well, sir."

"Very good, sergeant. There is nothing further to be done until we reach Twatutia. Be seated."

"Thank you, sir."

"By the way, sergeant, I notice by the passport that your name is John Gorman."

"It is, sir."

"I used to know a Sergeant John Gorman on the police force in Kingston, Canada. They say that, when the college boys were out on a frolic and raising cain, he could do more to keep them within bounds with a smile and a bit of blarney than all the rest of the force could do with their batons."

"Och, but he'll be from Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, in County Cork. All the people there are Gormans, an' most of thim are John Gormans. An' as for the shmile, all the Gormans have it. They get it whin they're childer, sayin' the name of their native place. An' whin they grow up, no matther where they go, the shmile wan't come off--the divil a bit will it come off."

"You're right there, sergeant," said McLeod. "You have the smile, sure enough. But it never shows to best advantage until you say the name of the place where you were born. What's this it is, again?"

"Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."

"Exactly! That's a name to make any one smile."

"Och, Misther McLeod, but you shud have seen it on me whin I furst left the ould place. Me face was all shmile. But on the Afghan border wan day, an ould black-face of a Pathan--may the divil fly away wid him!--tuk a pot shot at me from betune two rocks. He got me through the two cheeks of me, an' siv'ral of me teeth. After the wounds healed up I never had me natural shmile ag'in,--wud you bel'ave me I niver was able to shmile natural ag'in."

"Did you get back at him at all?" inquired McLeod.

"That's jist what was hurtin' me. For while I was spittin' out me teeth, an' in no condishun to take aim, the onderhanded, tricherous Afghan was dodgin' away through the rocks. But me next in file in the Munsters, he was a Scotchman from Aberdeen got a squint of him as he bint double, goin' round the corner of a pricipice, an' be the blissin' of Hiven, took a chip off the stern works of him--a mortial good shot, for the target he hit was the only part in sight."

"But how did you know that he was hit?" asked McLeod. "Did you take him prisoner?"

"Divil a bit! A wounded Pathan can crawl loike a wounded snake. But eighteen months afterwards I was up in the hills, wan of an escort of the p'ace envoys. The very first day wan of the native policemen pointed out an ould black-face among the chiefs an' tould me that was the man that put the bullet through me two cheeks. An' be the powers, that ould haythen cud no more sit down than I cud shmile. The shot of me next in file had spoiled the joint in the middle of him. It was the furst rale comfort that had come to me since the day I was shot. I began to laugh whin I saw him shtandin' up shtiff as a ramrod whin the others sat; or lyin' on his back, shtraight as a yardstick whin the rest were reclinin'-loike on the divans. The more I thought of it, the more I laughed, an' the shmile of the Gormans began to come back to me little by little. But I'll niver have the shmile ag'in that I had in Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky--sure as I'm livin', I'll niver shmile ag'in as I used to whin I left Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky."

"How did you come to leave Sleeahtballymack-what-a-ghalicky?" inquired Sinclair.

"Shure, docther, an' it wasn't me own doin'. To the best of me ricolliction it was the doin' of Providence, wid a bit of help from the priests, an' me father, an' the government, an' the recruitin' sergeant thrown in."

"How did they all come to the help of Providence?" asked the doctor.

"Faix, but you're of an inquirin' turn of moind, docther; beggin' your pardon for makin' so bould as to tell you that same."

"It's all right, sergeant. Go on."

"Well, docther, to make a long story short, it began this way. Me father was an indepindint farmer, wid a bit of land right forninst the dure of the church at Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, an' a hundred pounds in a bank in Cork. He was gittin' on in years. Me mother was dead, an' I was the only choild. What does me father do but tips an' wills his land to the Church for masses, me to be a priest, an' the money to the college that was to educate me. You'll onderstand that the land an' the money were not to be paid over till me father was dead an' done wid thim, d'ye see? But I was to go to school at wanst to be trained for a priest, d'ye onderstand?"

"Yes, I see the plan."

"Well, widout even so much as sayin' 'by your l'ave,' they packed me off to the Classical School in Skibbereen, to learn Latin an' the other dead-an'-gone languages. To make a long story short, it didn't agree wid me, an' I didn't agree wid it. It wasn't the languages. I cud get thim all right. It was this business of bein' a priest. Moind ye, I'm not sayin' annything ag'in the Church. I was born a Catholic, an' I'll die a Catholic. But bein' a priest wint ag'in me grain. To repeat ould dead prayers for dead people, in dead languages, which nobody prisint but the blissed Lord Himself cud onderstand, an He tired of hearin' thim centuries before you were born; to hear ould wives confessin' their sins which they shudn't tell to anny man, barrin' another ould wife loike thimselves; to live on the fat of the land while the Paddies an' Dinnies an' Mickies were livin' on pitaties an' salt, wid now an' ag'in a taste of butthermilk--it didn't seem to me givin' value for the money received.

"An' thin I was gettin' to be a bit of a gossoon, an' sometoimes I was afther thinkin' of me farm at Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, which wasn't moine ayther, for it was willed to the Church. They often tould me that whin I was a priest I wud have no use for the farm. They said that a half-acre of purgatory was worth more to a priest than the best two-hundred-acre farm in County Cork. But they all had their well-cultivated garden plots in purgatory, an' bedad but they wanted me farm as well--d'ye moind. They were afther me farm in County Cork as well.

"Not to be wearyin' you wid the details of me autybiography, the longer I was at it the less I loiked it, an' the more I had differences of opinion wid the priests of the college, 'speshully wid the wan they called the Prefect of Discipline, which is the polite name for the Wallopin' Masther. Jist as I was gettin' tired of the b'atin's, an' was thinkin' of runnin' away an' joinin' the navy for the sake of a quiet loife, the English Government came to the assistance of Providence, an' betune the two they got me out of bein' a priest--thanks to the government an' the Hivenly Lord, I got out of bein' a priest."

"How in the world did the government come to interfere with your course in the college?" inquired Sinclair.

"The government did not interfere directly, as you moight say. It didn't make what you moight call a frontal attack. It jist made a kind of divarshun in the rear. It appointed me father a Jay Pay."

"A Jay Pay!" exclaimed McLeod. "What kind of a pay is that?"

"Why, Misther McLeod, it's a Jay Pay, jist. A Justice of the P'ace for the District of West Cork."

"Oh, I understand!"

"Yes, sir! It appointed me father a Jay Pay for West Cork. An', docther, did you ever hear of annything foolisher in your loife? To appoint a man a Jay Pay who was sixty-foive years ould, foive fut two inches high, weighed only seven stone, and had never learned how to use the two hands of him or the proper twisht to give a blackthorn? Wud you tell me now, fwhat was the use of makin' a Justice of the P'ace in West Cork out of a little ould man who cud nayther use his hands nor twirl a shillelagh?"

"It does appear unreasonable."

"Onreasonable? Begorra, it was wurrse than that. There was no sinse to it. An' anny man that knows West Cork will tell you the same. But the ways of the governmint are loike the ways of Providence, past foinding out. Anny way, it meant that me course for the priesthood was brought to a speedy conclusion.

"How?"

"Well, it was this way. Me father was appointed a Jay Pay, wid headquarters at Bantry. The very furst case he troied was wan of assault committed by Micky Murphy on Paddy O'Leary whin he was seein' Biddy O'Hea home afther mass. They were pretty well matched, and wan got as much damage as the other. So me father jist bound both of thim over to kape the p'ace. Wud you belave me, just to show th'ir contimpt for the law an' for a little ould man loike that bein' made a Jay Pay, by common consult they fought it out forninst the very dure of his court, while the local consthables held their coats an' Biddy O'Hea was referee.

"Thin was me chanst. Before that me father wud hear nothin' for me but bein' a priest. Now he appointed me a speshull consthable. He wanted me to go to Dublin an' take some lessons wid me hands an' wid a shtick from a profissor of the science. I tould him that it was quite unnecessary. Anny likely gossoon of eighteen or nineteen who had spint three years contindin' wid the Wallopin' Masther of that school in Skibbereen had all the science he was likely to need as a speshull consthable. An' be the powers, me father had no reason to repint of his choice. There was no more contimpt shown for the law whin he held court--shure as the saints are in hiven, niver a wan showed anny more contimpt of court in West Court, but he was sorry for the day he was born.

"Not to be wearyin' you wid particulars, this wint along for about three years. Thin me father got too feeble to do the wurrk, an' the governmint appointed an associate Jay Pay. That was the ind of me service as a speshull consthable. The new Jay Pay stood six fut three, an' weighed two hundred an' fifty pounds. I was out of a job.

"But there was no lack of divarshun. From Mullaghareirk to Ballingurreen, from Clonakilty to Ballydehob, from Musheramore to Teampeall-na-bo'ct, every Rory of the Hills that had iver been in me father's court, or iver had a relation there, was lyin' for me wid his shillelagh, an' sometimes an ould rusty fowlin'-piece. It wasn't healthy for me in West Cork anny more. The priests cud have made it safe enough. But I had wanst studied to be a priest, an' had continded wid the Prefect of Discipline, d'ye see? An' thin there was the hundred pounds in the bank in Cork, an' the farm forninst the dure of the church in Sleeahtballymackcurraghalicky, d'ye moind? They wud be surer if I was out of the way. So, for the sake of a quiet loife, I tuk the Queen's shillin' an' went away to the wars--God pardon me if I'm not speakin' the truth, it was for a quiet loife I left West Cork, an' was shipped out wid the Munsters to the wars in Indy."

"Did you ever see your father again?"

"Niver! He doied a twelvemonth after I left for Indy."

"Have you ever been back to see the old place where you were born?"

"Wanst. Tin years afther I enlisted, I got l'ave an' wint back from Indy."

"And the farm----?"

"It was still there. They hadn't moved it."

"Who had it?"

"The priests."

"Was the money still in the bank in Cork?"

"Divil a bit!"

"Did you inquire?"

"I did."

"What did they tell you?"

"They tould me that they had expinded the hundred pounds, an' the value of the farm, an' a little more in masses an' prayers to get me father out of purgatory. They said that I was a bit in their debt, an' that they would need a trifle yet for they hadn't got him quite free. I asked thim if that was God's truth they were speakin'. They tould me that it was. 'Thin,' says I, 'if you know so much of what's goin' on in purgatory, wud you jist give me father a message from me? Jist tell him to ask the Blissed Lord to open the dure and let him out, an' I'll stake me sowl's salvation on it that the Lord will do it at wanst, and niver ask him for a farm or a hundred pounds in the bank. For me father was a man that niver willingly hurted a chicken.' An' wid that I left them wid me farm an' the hundred pounds. But it's many a cintury me father will be restin' on the beds of flowers in glory before the fires of purgatory will have burned that farm an' the hundred pounds out of the sowls of the black dragoons who defrauded me of me inheritance. An' that's God's truth I'm tellin' you. An' moind ye, it's a Catholic I was born and a Catholic I intind to die."

For a time the three white men sat in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. The broad river streamed past them, gleaming in the sun, bearing its fleet of fishing boats and market boats and here and there a cargo boat, with big mat sails, dropping down with the current and tide, laden with tea or sugar or camphor or coal. The low green shores were quick with the life of a dense population. Beyond these the blue and purple hills rose and stretched away in wavy lines of colour till the far-off lofty peaks blended with the sky.

Dr. Sinclair turned from the natural scenery to look again at the Irish soldier who was to be his companion in the new and unaccustomed scenes which lay before him. Sergeant Gorman was looking out over river and plain and mountain. But his eyes were those of one who did not see. There was a far-away look in them. Dreams slept in their red-brown depths. He interested Sinclair strangely. He was a rare specimen in the doctor's field of research, human kind. He wanted to know more of him.

"You have put in most of your service in the Far East, Sergeant Gorman?" he said.

"I have, sir. All except two years spint at the Cape."

"Mostly in India?"

"Mostly, wid spells at Aden and in Burmah. Thin I was sint to Hong-Kong, where I picked up the pidgin. I put in my last years of service in the Straits, where I learned a bit of the lingo spoken here. At the Straits all the wurrk is done by Chinese from Amoy, the same people as these in Formosa. Thin, as there was nothing for a time-expired soldier to do, an' the climate was too hot for the wife an' childer, I came north to Amoy an' tuk service ag'in wid some more has-beens, to guard the consulate an' do a bit of police wurrk in the Settlement durin' the trouble wid the French. But, begorra, it was out of the fryin'-pan into the fire."

"How was that?"

"Me mother-in-law came to live wid us."

"That was hard lines," said McLeod sympathetically.

"Faith, an' if you'd known her you'd say that from the heart."

"How long did you stand it?

"Six weeks."

"And then----?"

"Thin I heard that the French were beloike to kick up a shindy in Formosa. So for the sake of a quiet loife I exchanged to Tamsui. An' here I am off to the wars ag'in an' enjoyin' p'ace an' happiness--by the blissin' of Hiven, enjoyin' p'ace an happiness."

*X*

*GLORIOUS WAR*

The launch had reached the landing-place at Twatutia. The little party stepped ashore. A parting grasp of the hand from McLeod, and Dr. Sinclair, Sergeant Gorman, A Hoa and the student guide stepped into chairs, to be borne to the governor's yamen in the adjoining walled city of Taipeh.

The governor was not at home. He had already left for Keelung to take personal charge of the defences. But the deputy he had left in Taipeh seemed to have imbibed some of the active and progressive spirit of Liu Ming-chuan. He read a Chinese copy of the passports, listened carefully to A Hoa's courteous and polished explanations, affixed the official seals, and wrote a brief order to all officials, civil and military, to extend all courtesy and afford every assistance to the distinguished foreigners who were volunteering their services to the Chinese forces. There were none of the old-time red-tape evasions and delays of Chinese officialdom. He was another of the pioneers of a new China.

A Hoa returned to Tamsui, having fulfilled his commission. The rest pushed on towards the camp at Loan-Loan.

Before they left the city they met in the streets many natives who were plainly refugees from Keelung and the vicinity. Once outside the walls, they saw the narrow road as it wound and zigzagged through the rice-fields, dotted with town and country people, hurrying as best they could towards the capital for safety. The farther they advanced the denser grew the stream of fugitives.

The rice-fields were left behind with the plain near Taipeh. The road began to pass through a more and more mountainous region. It grew narrower and narrower, until it was a mere foot-path, sometimes threading the bottom of a ravine and sometimes clinging precariously to the face of a hill which was almost a precipice; now dropping down to the very margin of the river or fording a tributary stream, and now far up on a mountain side. And all the way, like a huge, writhing, variegated snake, appearing on the hillsides and open spaces, disappearing in the ravines, in the long grass or groves of bamboos, that endless line of refugees wound its slow length along.

It is about twenty miles from Taipeh to Keelung. After the first ten miles the throng of fugitives became so dense that it was very difficult for the chairs to proceed. Honest fathers of families laden with all they could carry of their poor household possessions; rascally banditti and sneak thieves taking advantage of the general disorder and distress to loot their neighbours' deserted houses, and even to snatch from the hands or shoulders of the defenceless the few valuables they were trying to save; women hobbling along on their little feet with infants strapped to their backs, and older children, whom they were ill-able to help, clinging to their hands; maidens terror-stricken by the tales of the imaginary atrocities of the foreign devils, and scarcely less afraid of the real atrocities of their own rascally fellow-countrymen, especially of many of the braves from the mainland.

At long intervals a sedan-chair pressed its way through the throng, bearing a sick or wounded officer back to the capital. Wounded regulars in white or red or maroon tunics and straw hats limped along, adding a touch of colour to the writhing serpent. Irregular levies in the ordinary dark-blue cotton clothing of the Chinese coolies were hastening home, glad of the success of the French attack, so that they might get an opportunity to desert with their arms and all the loot they could lay their hands upon.

The flight had its comedies and its tragedies. But the comedies only played lightly over the surface of the general tragedy. A coolie jogged along with two huge baskets swinging from the ends of the bamboo carrying-pole. In one were a small pig and a number of live ducks and hens. Balancing these in the other basket were his two children.

Some farmers, making an effort to save their livestock, drove a number of pigs and a herd of water-buffaloes into the midst of the long line of refugees. But frightened by the yells and execrations, pounded with staffs and bamboo yokes, and jabbed by the knives, spears, and bayonets of the soldiers, they stampeded along the narrow way through the midst of the procession. The pigs, running between the feet of the weary plodders, upset many. But the buffaloes, with their huge bulk and enormous horns, flung them right and left and trampled some to death, till their mad rush turned off at an angle from the road being followed. Over all rose a continual clamour of shrill, high-pitched voices--talking, scolding, cursing, crying, screaming hysterically.

One old woman with white hair, hobbling painfully along with the aid of a staff, stopped again and again, saying that she could go no farther. Each time her son, who was laden with the most precious of his household goods, reasoned with her, pled with and adjured her to try again. He was backed by all the members of the family. After much shrill altercation, she would make another attempt and struggle along a short distance. At last she stopped, sat down by the wayside, and, in spite of all they could do, refused to budge an inch. Her poor little bound feet could carry her no farther. Seeing that persuasion was in vain, the son put down his load of valuables. He looked hesitatingly from his mother to his poor possessions, and from them back to his mother again. Filial piety prevailed, and crouching down he lifted his mother on his back and trudged on, leaving his chattels by the way. He had not gone a hundred feet when there was not an article left. But there were other old and feeble, other women and children, who had none to carry them. They were left beside the road to live or die.

A man dressed in a long gown of mauve silk, evidently a prosperous merchant, was trudging along, followed closely by his wife, a couple of young maidens, evidently daughters, and some younger children. One of the bandits who had been enrolled as soldiers and had deserted was hurrying past. Like a flash he snatched at a cord he saw around the merchant's neck, jerked a bag of money from within his clothes and with a tug which well-nigh strangled him wrenched it away. Recovering himself a little the merchant, with a scream of anger, struck the robber over the head with his staff. Instantly the ruffian levelled his gun and blew out his victim's brains, in the midst of the shrieking women of his household. Then, darting into the long grass and bamboos, he made his escape. There was none to avenge. There were none save the weeping women to care. Fear and the instinct of self-preservation made them all brutes. The throng pressed blindly on, trampling the still quivering body of the murdered man under their feet.

There were many more women and children in the flight than men. It was not merely because some of the men had willingly taken service against the enemy, and others had been impressed. In many cases it was because the husbands and fathers had fled first and left their wives and children to fare as best they could. Love plays so small a part in Chinese home life that there was little bond to bind husbands to wives. A wife is purchased in much the same way as any other domestic animal. When it came to a choice between his individual safety by unencumbered flight and incurring some risk by waiting to save his wife, many a Chinese husband unhesitatingly chose the former. The women of such families had to seek safety as best they could. Great numbers of them were among the fugitives.

These defenceless women were the special prey of the irregular levies, deserters, and banditti, who were everywhere searching for loot and committing deeds of violence. Taking advantage of the crowding and confusion caused by the passing of Sinclair's chair at a narrow part of the road, one scoundrel snatched some jewellery from several unprotected women, twisted bracelets from their arms, and even twitched earrings from their bleeding ears. It was right in front of Sergeant Gorman's chair. Then the robber sprang past the chair on the side next the mountain in his attempt to escape. He was not quick enough.

"Och, you dirty thavin' blackguard, take that!"

A fist shot out of the little opening in the side of the covered chair, and a blow like that of trip-hammer caught the Chinese on the jaw and dashed him against the steep hillside. Then, with a spring which knocked his forward chair-bearer off his feet, Gorman was out in the open ready for action.

He was none too soon. Supple as a cat, the Chinese had rolled over and, lying on the ground, was already taking aim. But Gorman was too quick. The rifle was dashed aside and discharged harmlessly along the mountain slope. In another instant it was wrenched out of the hands of the Chinese and flung across the path, down the bank into the river. Then, gripping his adversary by the neck-band of his short blue jacket, the Irishman, with one tremendous heave of hand and foot together, lifted the Chinese clear of the ground and pitched him headlong after his rifle. The last wild scream of rage and fear ended in the splash of the falling body. The swift dark water swept it out of sight.

"Begorra, an' ye'll not abuse definseless women anny more!"

At the first sound of Gorman's voice mingling with the shrill clamour of the Chinese, Sinclair had sprung from his chair with a big .44 revolver in his hand, ready for action. He did not know what had brought on the scrimmage. But a glance showed him that, while Gorman was quite able to cope with the present situation, there was a possibility of serious danger. A few long strides brought him to where the sergeant had just flung his opponent down the bank into the river.

The screams of terror of the women redoubled at the sight of the two foreigners. The size of Sinclair, the fierce vigour of Gorman, the fair complexions, the foreign dress and foreign weapons of both, brought to mind the stories they had heard from infancy of the great, green-eyed, red-faced, hairy barbarians who came from over the sea, who knew not the rules of good conduct, and who, whenever they got the chance, maltreated the sons and daughters of Han.

Cries of "Ang-mng! Ang-mng!" (Red-heads), "Hoan-a-kui!" (Foreign devils) rose above the inarticulate shrieks of fear.

Sergeant Gorman was equal to the occasion. Utterly unmindful of the wild disorder about him, he busied himself gathering up the articles of jewellery which the thief had dropped in the struggle. Then with his best Chinese and profound bows he returned these to the women from whom they had been torn.

For a moment the terrified women could not realize his meaning. When they did, their shrill cries of "Ang-mng!" and "Hoan-a-kui!" gave place to that of "Ho-sim! Ho-sim!" (Good heart).

At the same time the student guide, getting an opportunity to make his voice heard, was explaining that these were not Frenchmen, but Englishmen, that they were friends of the missionary, Kai Bok-su, and that they were doctors going to heal the Chinese who had been wounded in the battle with the French. Again the cry "Ho-sim!" (Good heart) rose from the fugitives. Only some of the rascally looters looked at them with evil eyes and sullen faces.

Sending their chairs back, Dr. Sinclair, Sergeant Gorman, and their Chinese companions proceeded on foot. Before long they turned off into a path leading in an easterly direction and soon touched the Chinese lines. The order from the governor's deputy gained them courteous treatment, and they were conducted to the general's headquarters at the village of Loan-Loan.

*XI*

*THE LIFE-HEALER IS COME*

Dr. MacKay had prepared the Chinese commander for their coming. Liu Ming-chuan lost no time in meaningless formalities. He read their passports, thanked them for coming, issued orders giving Dr. Sinclair a free hand in dealing with the sick and wounded, and in half an hour saw him beginning his work.

"I am glad you have come," said MacKay. "I was sure you would." The keen black eyes looked straight into Sinclair's blue ones. "I was sure you would," he repeated. "You want to do good to humanity. I never saw a time when it was more needed. God sent you here for this very time."

"I hope that may be true," replied Sinclair. "For the present we must get busy. Have many wounded been brought in?"

"More than a hundred. But I believe that there are many more in the various forts or on the open hillsides, lying where they fell. There has been no system about collecting the wounded."

"That will be for you to organize, sergeant--an ambulance corps."

"Bedad, sir, an' if they'll give me the men I ask for I'll train them till they can pick up a wounded man before he falls."