Part 6

... Sitting on the sand, we are this August 5th under birch saplings and by the side of a running stream. Davis and Lewis are asleep in the sand. Fifteen miles only is our _métier_ to-day and Brill is anxious to go on. The roads are bad farther on, say the Japanese, and transportation difficult: the only satisfactory reason yet given for this hideous delay, and this, I'm afraid, not the true one. They simply don't trust us--that's all. The body of the dragon is naturally getting bigger and his vertebræ are distinctly more lumpy. For instance, he gathered in a train of thirty freight-cars this morning and he had six hundred coolies pulling it for him. The button of him dropped back to-day toward the tip o' tail that is his anatomical place. Brill passed him on the road. His bicycle-tire was punctured and he was trying to mend it, Brill says, with 25-cent postage-stamps. He evidently succeeded, for he has just arrived. He seems to have had a high old time on the way. At the last Chinese village he halted long enough to offer a prize--what I don't know--to the Chinese child that could display the prettiest embroidered stomacher. He had them lined up in a shy, smiling row, and was about to deliver the prize when the winner was suddenly thrust forward with a wonderful piece on his chubby tum-tum. The wild Irishman gave him the prize, hoisted him on the bicycle and circled the compound swiftly to the delight of the village. I asked him how he communicated with these isolated heathens and he said he talked Irish to them. I'm quite sure he does and he seems to make himself understood.

It's sunset now at North Wa-fang-tien and all of us are out in a hard-packed, sand-floor yard under little birch trees. It was a hot ride to-day--the last mile being over a glaring white road and through glaring white sand. That glare of a fierce sun made the head ache and the very eyeballs burn. I almost reeled from Fuji, who for that mile was, for the first time, almost docile.

We had a shock and a thrill to-day--Brill, Lewis, Davis, and I. It was noon, and while we sat on a low stone wall in a grassy grove, a few carts filled with wounded Japanese passed slowly by. In one cart sat a man in a red shirt, with a white handkerchief tied over his head and under his chin. Facing him was a bearded Japanese with a musket between his knees. The man in the red shirt wearily turned his face. It was young, smooth-shaven, and _white_. The thrill was that the man was the first Russian prisoner we had seen--the shock that among those yellow faces was a captive with a skin like ours. I couldn't help feeling pity and shame--pity for him and a shame for myself that I needn't explain. I wondered how I should have felt had I been in his place and suddenly found four white men staring at me. It's no use. Blood is thicker than water--or anything else--in the end.

This is distinctly a human country--a country of cornfields, beans and potatoes, horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, goats, and no freaks in tree-trunk, branch, or foliage. But I can't get over seeing a Chinaman in a cornfield. It is always a shock. He doesn't seem to have any right there--somehow nobody does except a white man or a darky. There are tumble-bugs in the dusty road and gray, flying grasshopper-like things that rise from the dust, flutter a few feet from the earth and drop back again, just as they do at home. And the dragon-flies--why, they are nothing in the world but the "snake-doctors" that I used to throw stones at when I was a boy in the Bluegrass. The mountains are treeless and volcanic, but it's a human country and I don't feel as far from home as I did in Japan. Brill says it all looks like a lot of Montana hills around Ohio cornfields: only the corn is millet that grows twelve feet high. The people eat the top, they feed the blades to live-stock, and the stalk serves almost every purpose of bamboo and for firewood as well. You can ride for hours between two solid walls of it, and you wonder how there can be people enough in the scattering villages to plant and till, or even to cut it. A richer land I never saw. It looks as though it would feed both armies, and yet there was no sign--no burned house or robbed field or even a cast-off bit of the soldier's equipment to show that an army had ever passed that way. One fact only spoke significantly of war. No woman--except a child or a crone--was ever visible. This struck me--when I recalled the trail of the Massachusetts volunteers from Siboney to Santiago and the thousands of women refugees straggling into Caney--as very remarkable. I suppose both Japanese and Russians are trying to keep the good-will of the Chinaman as well as of the rest of the world. I don't wonder that the Russians are fighting for that land, nor shall I wonder should the Japanese, if they win, try to keep it. But how it should belong to anybody but the Chinaman who has tilled it in peace and with no harm to anybody for thousands of years--I can't for the life of me see.

Next morning there was a sign of war. At daybreak some red flecks from the dragon's jaws drifted back from the mist and dust through which he was writhing forward. It looked, some man said, like the procession of the damned who filed past Dante in hell. Each man had a red roll around him. They uttered no sound--they looked not at one another, but stared vacantly and mildly at us as they shuffled silently from the mist and shuffled silently on. The expression of each was so like the expression of the rest that they looked like brothers. A more creepy, ghost-like thing I never saw. I knew not what they were, but they fascinated me and made me shudder, and I found myself drawing toward them, step by step, hardly conscious that I was moving. I do not recall that any one of us uttered a word. Yet they were only sick men coming back from the front--soldiers sick with the _kakke_, the "beriberi," the sleeping sickness. It was hard to believe that the face of any one of them had ever belonged to a soldier---hard to believe that sickness could make a soldier's face so gentle. That man in the red shirt and those gray ghosts that shuffled so silently out of one mist and so silently into another are the high lights in the two most vivid pictures I've seen thus far.

The beriberi comes from a diet of too much fish and rice, I understand. It numbs the extremities and has a paralyzing effect on body and mind. Summer is its time and snow checks its course. A man may have it a dozen times and sometimes he dies. The young and able-bodied are its favorite victims, old men its rare ones, and women and foreigners it wholly spares. It made great havoc among Japanese soldiers in Korea, but the Japanese now conquer beriberi as though it were a Russian metamorphosis.

Shung-yo-hing is the place now and the time is 2 P.M. The heat was awful and the dust from thousands of carts, coolies, and beasts of burden choked the very lungs. I have the bulge on Fuji now. I knot the reins and draw them over the pommel of a McClellan saddle, thus holding his muzzle close to his chest. It seemed to puzzle Fuji a good deal.

"He can't even neigh," I said to Brill in triumph, and Brill cackled scorn. Fuji neighed five times in the next ten yards. I should say that his record in six hours to-day was about this: stumbling with right forefoot--300 times; stumbling with left hind-foot--200 times; neighs--1,000.

There are about twenty miles more to Kaiping. Haicheng has been taken by the Japanese. Somebody has just come in with cheering news--we can get back to Yokohama by water. Gently we all said:

"Hooray!" The parting from Fuji will not be sad.

... This morning I found in one pocket some strange pieces of paper with strange ideographs thereon in Japanese.

"What are these, Takeuchi?"

Takeuchi looked really embarrassed.

"Prayers," he said. "I got them at a temple. If you carry them, you will get back safe." Well, that made Takeuchi immune for days.

At Kaiping we are now and we go to Haicheng to-morrow. At least we think we do. We got here last night: Fuji being lame, I left him for Takeuchi to lead (he rode him, of course); went on afoot and later climbed aboard a freight-train drawn by 600 coolies. I told the Japanese in my smattering best of their language that my horse had gone lame, and they were very polite. The train went slowly along the dragon's length and I had a chance to observe minutely those vertebræ--heavy Chinese wagons, the wheels with two thick huge spokes cross-barred, the hoops of wood and studded with big, shining rivets, and the axles turning with the wheels; between the shafts, a horse, bullock, or a mule; in front, three leaders, usually donkeys, mules (the best I've seen out of America), or bullocks, in all possible combinations of donkey, mule, or bullock. Sometimes an ass colt trotted alongside. The drivers were Chinese coolies, each with a long whip--the butt of bamboo, the shaft spliced with four cane reeds, the lash of leather and the cracker as it is all over the rural world. The two or three leaders of the four- or five-in-hand, pulled by ropes attached to the cart at either side of the cart to one side of each shaft. The hames were two flat pieces of wood, lashed to a straw collar that was sometimes canvas-covered. The cries of the drivers, strange as they sounded to the foreigner near by, were at a distance strangely like the cries of drivers everywhere:

"Atta! Atta! Atta-atta-atta!"

"Usui! Usui!--u-u-u-su-u-i!"

"Whoa-a-ah!"

At noon, Lionel James and little Clarkin rode by and shouted that the Japanese Commandant there had a lunch ready near by. We found half a dozen tables set in the walled yard of a Chinese farmhouse. All of us were expected, but the others (except the Japanese correspondents who were on hand) had gone on. There was a nice sergeant there and a grave major with medals, and there were soldiers with fans to keep off the flies, while we sat in an arbor, under white Malaga-like clusters of grapes, and had tea and beer and tinned Kobbe beef and army crackers. The rain started when we started on--and when it rains in Manchuria, it really seems to rain. I was on foot in a light flannel shirt, and had no coat or poncho. In ten minutes the road had a slippery coating of mud, I was wet to the skin and, as my boots had very low heels, I was slipping right, left, and backward with every step. Clarkin and James overtook me and we took turns walking. In an hour the road was a very swift river, belly-deep and with big waves--dangerous to cross. Miles and miles we went through muddy cornfields for four hours, until we could see, across a yellow river, the high, thick walls of Kaiping through the drizzling mist. I waded the river, waist-high, and on the other side an interpreter gave me a white mule, which I took in order not to get my boots muddy again. We wound into a city gate, were stopped by a sentry and sent on again around the city walls and three or four miles across a muddy, slushy flat, full of deep wagon-ruts and holes. After much floundering through mud, and the fording of many streams, we found the Commandant with his shoes under his chair and his naked feet on the rungs. James clicked his heels and saluted. We all took off our hats, but as he neither rose nor moved naked foot toward yawning shoe, we put them back on again. We must go to Kaiping, he said, and he was very indifferent and smiled blandly when we told him that we had just waded and swum from Kaiping. Just the same we had to wade and swim back--by the same floundering way and through gathering darkness. We missed the way, of course, rode entirely around the city walls, rode through Kaiping and back again, and finally struck an interpreter who piloted us to this Chinese temple where I write. I was cold, muddy, hungry, and tired to the bone. But the button on the dragon's tail was there, and Brill the gentle; and, mother of mercies! they had things to eat and to drink. An hour later, Davis came in half-dead--leading Prior on Williams and Walker. He had struck the same gentleman of the naked foot and yawning shoe, had been sent on, and had gone into a stream over his head and crawled on hands and knees most of the way through pitch dark. He didn't mind himself, but Prior was elderly and was ill. Davis wanted the Commandant to take him in, but he refused and Davis was indignant:

"I wouldn't turn a water-snake out of doors on a night like this."

But those two same Samaritans saved him straightway, and we sit now in Chinese clothes in front of a temple and under a great spreading, full-leafed tree, with two horses champing millet before the altar and thousands of buzzing flies around. To-morrow we go on!

VI

THE WHITE SLAVES OF HAICHENG

Haicheng at last! The Russians are only five miles away and they can drop shells on us, but they don't. The attachés were taken out on a reconnaissance yesterday, and we, too, if we are very good, will be allowed to see a Japanese soldier in a real ante-mortem trench.

We left Yoka-tong this morning at seven and in three hours reached dirty, fly-ridden Ta-shi-kao. The valley has broadened as we have come north. The Chinese houses are better and the millet-fields (kow-liang) stretch away like a sea on each side of the road. Soldiers were bathing in the river that we crossed to get to the gate of Haicheng, and the stretch of sand was dotted with naked men. Every grove was, in color, mingled black, brown, and dirty white from the carts, horses, and soldiers packed under the trees. We found the courteous Captain of Gendarmes, by accident, straightway, and we had to take tea hot, tea cold, and tea with condensed milk before he would lead us to our quarters in this mud compound. Lewis, Reggie, and Scull greeted us with a shout and produced beer and Tansan and a bottle of champagne cider. Heavens, what nectar each was! The rest are coming, but the button on the dragon's tail--the Irishman on the bicycle--has come off. Nobody knows where it dropped. Reggie the big Frenchman is newly mounted on a savage yellow beast that can be approached, like a cow, only on the right side--and Lewis told the story of the two. Davis answered with the story of our tribulations--his, Brill's and mine. He told it so well that Brill and I wished we had been there....

We slept in our riding-clothes for the third time last night and to-day we know our fate. We are to play a week's engagement here in a drama of still life--the title of which heads these lines. With a sleeve-badge of identification on--the Red Badge of Shame we call it--we can wander more or less freely within the city walls. We can even climb on them and walk around the town--about two miles--but we cannot go outside without a written application from the entire company, and then only under a guard. We are to have three guards, by the way, and our letters--even private ones--are to go to the censor and not come back to us. Thus no man will know what has gone, and what hasn't, or whether what went was worth sending. Later this restriction was removed.

Our Three Guardsmen came to us last night and told these things. One was thick-set, bearded, and a son of Chicago University; one was smooth-shaven, thin-faced--and an authority on international law--both, of course, speaking English. The third carried a small mustache and talked very good French--so said Reggie. After the usual apologies, the bearded one said in partial excuse for shackling us:

"Some of our common soldiers, never having seen a foreigner before, are not able to distinguish between you and Russians. We wish to provide against accidents." And he laughed.

An incident on the way here, yesterday afternoon, made this sound plausible. I was riding alone, and hearing a noise behind me I turned in my saddle, to see a Japanese slipping upon me with his bayonet half-drawn from his scabbard. I stopped Fuji and said: "Nan desuka?" (What is it?) and he, too, stopped, and turned back. Whether this was a case in point or whether he was drunk and showing off before his companions, or whether my Tokio accent paralyzed him, I don't know, but later, the men who broke away from our guards and got among the soldiers, testified that they received nothing but courtesy, kindness, and childlike curiosity from the Japanese Tommy always.

"You saw Nanshan?" asked the bearded one.

"No," I said. "We want to see fighting, not battle-fields." He laughed again.

"You have had a very hard time, but I think the fight at Liao-Yang will recompense you."

"Have you heard anything from Port Arthur?"

"Nothing."

"We heard the guns as we came by and it was very exasperating." He laughed again.

"We do not think much about Port Arthur. That is only a question of time. Liao-Yang will be decisive. The sooner the Russians give up at Port Arthur, the better it will be for them."

"But they not only lose their own ships, but free the Japanese fleet for operations elsewhere."

"That's true."

"And they free the investing army for operations up here."

"That's true." He shook his head. "But Liao-Yang will be decisive."

They got up to go then and the bearded one simply bowed. The other two shook hands all around, and when they were through, the third said: "Well, I will shake hands, too," and he went the round.

Lewis has just come in--his face luminous with joyful news. General Oku has sent us over:

1 doz. bottles of champagne. 4 doz. bottles of beer. 1 package of fly-paper. 1 live sheep.

Liao-Yang is only about twenty-nine miles away, and the Three Guardsmen say we are not to be here very long. If the Russians can drop a shell on us here, I wish they would--just one, anyhow. Even one would save the faces of us a little.

... That poor Manchuria lamb of General Oku's died voluntarily this morning before the canteen-man could kill it--but the champagne, the beer, and the fly-paper are all the heart could desire. This day has been interesting. The Three Guardsmen rounded us up this afternoon and took us to see General Oku.

We burnished up riding-gear and riding-clothes and at three o'clock the compound was filled with squealing stallions and braying jackasses. It took three men to saddle Reggie's savage Mongolian. The Irishman, as usual, was not to be found--he and Scull had gone afoot, to the worry of the Three Guardsmen; but we rode out finally, single-file, a brave but strangely assorted company--Brill on his chestnut, Lewis on a milk-white charger, the Italian on an iron-gray, Davis on Devery, Laguerié on a little white donkey, Prior on his seventeen-hand, weak-backed white horse, and big Burleigh on a tiny savage pony that pasted Prior's horse, as we marched, with both heels.

"Why don't you go to the rear, Burleigh?" said Prior. "That beast of yours kicks."

"No, he doesn't," said Burleigh indignantly. "He only bites."

These two veterans and Davis wore ribbons on the left breast. Dean Prior, indeed, seemed to have his color-box there. I had a volunteer policeman's badge that came from the mountains of old Virginia. I was proud of it, and it meant campaigns, too, but I couldn't pull it amidst the glory of those three. Lieutenant Satake, the authority on international law, led. The bearded one guarded our centre and the third watched our rear. At the city gate a sergeant sprang to his feet:

"Hoo--!" he said, and I thought he was going to give us a whole cheer, but it was only a half. Still all the sentries sprang to attention and the soldiers at the gate stood rigid as their muskets. Over the stretch of white sand, across the yellow river, and up a sandy road we went, past staring sentries, and then into a little Chinese village, where we dismounted. No servants were allowed, so soldiers came forward to hold our horses. Fuji was curvetting no little.

"Warui desu!" I said, which still means, "He's bad," and the soldier smiled and led Fuji far to one side.

We followed Satake into a court-yard. He seemed rather nervous and presently motioned us to halt. Presently he came back, called the roll, and each man, after answering his name, stepped to one side and stood in line where there were two tables under grape arbors and covered with cigars and cigarettes. Satake looked relieved--not one of us had escaped; even the Irishman was there. Several officers stood expectantly about, and, after a long pause, a tired-looking, slender man appeared, accompanied by a rather stout, sleek-looking young one, and followed by an officer with a beard and a rather big nose that in color bespoke considerable cheer. When they got near, a sad-faced interpreter stepped forward and in a sad, uneasy voice said:

"I have the honor to present you to His Imperial Highness, Prince Nashimoto."

The sleek young man bowed and thrust out his hand. We all advanced, spoke each his own name, and shook. Prior said, "Melton Prior."

Burleigh, bending low, said, almost confidentially:

"Burleigh." Davis came last----

"Mr. Davis." Then the tired-looking man, General Oku, and his aide with the nose of good cheer, shook hands: only it was they who went around the circle this time. The Prince retired behind one of the tables and General Oku stepped forward with his back to the Prince, and through the sad interpreter said things:

We had come thousands of miles and had endured many hardships getting to the front, and he welcomed us. He was sorry that on the battle-field he could give us so few comforts, but he was glad to see us and would do all he could for us, etc., etc.

Such solemnity as there was! Aide stood behind General--staff behind the aide. Most of them kept their faces bent till chin touched breast, and never looked up at all. If a high priest had been making a prayer for the soul of a dead monarch while other priests listened, the scene could not have been more solemn. Straight through, it was stiff, formal, uneasy--due, of course, to the absence of a common tongue and the uneasiness on the part of the Japanese in receiving us after the Occidental way; and I wondered if the scene would not have been the same had Occidentals been receiving the Japanese after the way of Japan. But I think not--American humor and adaptability would have lightened the gloom a little. I watched Oku keenly. Though I had seen him coming for twenty yards, I recalled suddenly that I saw nothing but his face until he got quite near. It was sad with something of Lincoln's sadness. In profile, it was kindly, especially when he smiled; full-faced there were proofs that he could be iron and relentless. But his eyes! Big, black, glittering, fanatical, ever-moving they were, and you caught them never but for a moment, but when you did, they made you think of lightning and thunder-storms. He was dressed simply in olive-green serge, with one star on his cap and three stars and three stripes on his sleeve. His boots were good. His sword hung in his left hand--unclinched. His other hand looked nerveless. Not once did he shift his weight from his right foot--only the sole of his left ever touching the stone flagging. He is the most remarkable looking man I've seen thus far among the Japanese, and I think we shall hear from him.

Then the aide with the cheerful nose spoke the same welcome and hoped we would obey the regulations. Dean Prior answered, thanking the General for the champagne, the beer, the fly-paper, and the lamb, whose untoward demise he gracefully skipped, and said he had always been trusted by generals in the field and hoped he would be trusted now. Then we smoked and the Irishman spoke halting French with the Prince, who (he looked it) had been educated in Paris. General Oku asked questions and we asked questions.

"How long have you been in Japan?"

"More than five months." He laughed and his teeth were not good.

"You must know Tokio well."

"I know every stone in Tokio," somebody said.

The General did not smile this time.

"Have you been to Nikko?" This was a malicious chance.