Part 9

The missionary fortunately was a clever man and a bit of an actor—he saw that this was no jest on Shelford’s part but deadly earnest. It was now nearly dark, and the bully Ching’s agents followed close on Shelford’s heels as he proceeded to the inn. On pretext of speaking to the innkeeper, Shelford left the common room and walked towards his host’s private apartments which he knew opened on to a small courtyard, from which there might have been no means of escape, but that it was necessary to risk. He drew the innkeeper into the room, the spies watching them both. Shelford continued in conversation and pushed the door-to with his foot. His host, instantly suspicious, made a movement to reopen it, but Shelford, quick as thought, dealt him a violent blow on the temple with his pistol, and catching the Chinaman as he was falling in a heap, so as to avoid any noise being heard by the spies in the outer room, he laid the unconscious man noiselessly on the floor, still keeping up his conversation in Chinese to deceive the watchers. Then, still talking, he edged towards the courtyard. A hasty glance in the now almost complete darkness showed him that the wall could be easily scaled. Quick as thought he was over and speeding through the empty streets to the water’s edge. As he ran towards the river he was followed by three Chinamen. Should he shoot? His revolver was ready, one of his pursuers tripped and fell, the boat was close at hand, and Shelford was about to turn and fire on his pursuers when—thank God!—he heard an exclamation in English. They were the missionaries, but now others came running with lights. His escape had been noticed! The four of them tumbled into the boat and, falling on the oars, attempted to push off with all their might. The Chinaman in the boat hurled himself on Shelford and shouted to the rapidly approaching Chinese. Wrenching himself free, Shelford struck the man a crushing blow between the eyes and flung him overboard, then, jumping into the stream, with a mighty effort he pushed the boat into deep water just as Ching’s hirelings reached the water’s edge. The boat seemed to be alongside the launch in a few seconds, but already a howling mob with flickering lanterns were lining the bank. Shelford pushed his companions on board and quickly jumped up himself, leaving the small boat to drift down-stream.

“Go forward and get up the anchor at once,” he gasped to the missionaries, who obeyed him with alacrity. Shelford ran to the wheel and found a strange Chinaman standing near it. Quick as thought he took him by the throat, saying, “Cry out and I strangle you!” The man struggled to free himself, but Shelford forced him towards the wire rail of the launch and, bending him backwards over it, gave a side kick to his ankles and tipped him into the river; then running back to the wheel, he rang down to the engine-room.

“Getting up anchor! Stand by to go ahead! The foreign devils are all killed and we must go up-stream, beach the launch, and loot her.”

The Chinaman in the engine-room, thinking one of his fellows was speaking, carried out his orders, and in a few moments the anchor was up and the steam launch moving down-stream towards Ping Tu.

Shelford felt fairly confident now, but there still remained one danger, that of a pursuit in boats; and in the event of their running aground in the dark they would then be captured and——

Slowly the launch crept down the river with Shelford at the wheel, the missionaries sitting near in cowed silence, and everyone longing for the daylight and the passing of the weary night.

Towards dawn one of the missionaries whispered to Shelford—

“My wife feels very faint—the reaction, I suppose. Have you any spirits or wine on board?”

“Good God! Is one of you a woman?” said Shelford. “Yes, there’s whisky in plenty in the cabin. Take her down and let her lie on the settee—and, padré, when you’ve given her some whisky you might bring me a peg and I’ll drink to the health of a brave woman. Forgive me for my seeming brutality, but I thought you were all men. Anyway I think we’ve all earned a drink, and you’ll also find some tins of biscuits in the locker.”

Shelford’s further remarks to himself and the way in which he undeservedly accused himself for lack of feeling for a female in distress were fortunately inaudible and equally fortunately unpublishable.

The whisky-and-soda and biscuits had a wonderful revivifying effect on the small party of Europeans, and now, as the steam launch crept slowly down the river, the first grey streaks of dawn began to appear. The married missionary and his wife were asleep on the settees in the cabin, the other missionary dozed in a cane chair near the wheel, and as the light increased Shelford recognised the land on either side and rang down to the engine-room for full speed ahead. In less than an hour of sunrise they were safe in Ping Tu. Friends came off to meet them, the missionaries were tenderly cared for by the ever hospitable people ashore, the two engine-room hands, to their great surprise, suddenly found themselves arrested for having been participators in the plot to kill the white men, and Shelford proceeded to the British Consul to make his report. A letter of protest was then sent to the obese and somnolent To Phat, but everyone knew that no reforms could take place in the town of Whang Chai till the return of the enlightened military officer, Hop Chu Tung, who was at present away.

Shelford didn’t talk much in the Club, and the missionaries were too bewildered by their exciting few hours to give much of an account of what had happened, so the incident was soon lost in the more important event of the approaching races.

Gubbins had proved full of energy and had been able to walk the famous Kwa Niu round the course, a great advance, as for some time the animal had refused to go between the rails at any price. Now Gubbins was confident that if Kwa Niu started he’d either win or savage every other pony on the track.

At last the opening day arrived. A Ping Tu race-meeting is worthy of a short description.

The racecourse is situated some two miles from the town, and is approached by a good road. The track is laid round a hollow, oval in shape, nearly seven furlongs in length, bounded on one side by the river and on the other by low scrubby hills. The centre is cultivated by market-gardeners to the n-th term.

On the outer side, when turning the corner to come down the straight to the winning-post, is a thick clump of screw-pines, but more of that clump anon. Opposite the winning-post is the grand-stand, built of brick, with stalls beneath for the stabling of the ponies. Every lady in Ping Tu goes to the races because she has a new dress from England for the occasion, and every man goes because he has a pony entered or, at least, a share of a pony. There is a paddock of hard bamboo grass, a bar, and a fenced-in promenade for ladies and members, outside which the Chinese swarm in every degree of blue cotton garment, from the newest and most stiff of the well-to-do to the washed-out and carefully-patched garments of the impecunious.

You can depend on fine weather in the month of February in Ping Tu; so every lady feels happy knowing she can wear her best clothes.

There is a general air of holiday in the community when the races begin, business is at a standstill, the men repair to the Club and split their pints of “the boy,” while the ladies put the finishing touches to their toilets. And now everyone is arriving on the course, the English, French, Russian, German, and other Consuls with their wives. The members of all the “hongs,” or business firms, with their belongings, and lastly Cretes, Jews, Arabians, etc., as it says in the Book of Common Prayer.

The British Consul had brought his consular guard of twelve Sikh police, and the Military Governor of Whang Chai had just returned in time to witness the races, and arrived that morning with two hundred Chinese troops to keep the course clear. All was bustle and excitement, the popping of champagne corks mingled with the pleasant hum of innumerable voices, and the Chinese Military Governor, with his Cambridge education, moved everywhere among the assembled crowd talking in perfect English.

Foh, the military official of Whang Chai, had only arrived at his headquarters the day before, and although deeply concerned at finding the mission gutted and at the outrageous treatment Shelford had received, his sporting instincts had led him to attend the races before executing summary justice upon the perpetrators of the outrage. So far Foh had had no opportunity of speaking to Shelford.

And then approached the great event of the day, the Derby. The Pari Mutuel was besieged by the Europeans and wealthier Chinese, and excitement was great as the numbers went up for the race. There were seven starters—Kwa Niu, pink with black cap; Stone Broke, blue and white check; Fuji San, green, white cap; Try Again, cerise; Greyfoot, yellow jacket, blue cap; Dai Nippon, blue and white hoops, yellow cap; and The Dodger, scarlet and old gold quartered.

The race is a mile and a half, and every occupant of the grand-stand was eagerly waiting with glasses fixed on the starting-point to see the ponies off. So keen was their attention that the clamour rising from the swarming hordes of Chinese outside the enclosure was unheard. At last they were off to a good start, and Kwa Niu, acting up to his usual reputation, appears to be left. At once a hail of good-natured chaff fell on Shelford, when all at once the eyes of all in the stand were directed to the railings round the enclosure. A fight of more than usual violence appeared to be going on there: the Sikh police were being assaulted, railings were torn up and used by the Chinese against the Indians, the latter being crushed down by weight of superior numbers. The mob surged across the course, several of the men ran and shut the wooden doors by which the grand-stand was entered. Shelford was the first to grasp the situation. He had recognised Ching urging on the mob. Foh also had seen how grave matters looked and rushed to the edge of the balcony, shouting orders to his soldiers. These, however, were busily tearing off their uniform jackets and mingling with the surging mob. Cries of “Kill! Kill!” resounded on all sides, and a fierce fight proceeded round the doors to the grand-stand between the few remaining Sikhs and the mob. The men tore off the iron rails round the balcony, and, headed by Shelford and Foh, ran to the gates and engaged with the mob, dealing deadly blows right and left on the shaven heads round them. What a position! Here were unarmed Europeans about to be destroyed by a mob of equally unarmed Chinese, and the women above in a frail structure of bricks and wood. Foh was nearly insane with rage. He felt himself more or less responsible for the good behaviour of the people, and here he was, powerless and deserted by his soldiers. The others had to restrain him from rushing into the mob alone to certain death. Now came a diversion. A horseman dashed through the mob at a furious gallop, scattering the people right and left, his steed savagely biting and snapping at everyone within reach. The unknown rider was gone like a flash, and the Chinese returned to the attack. Lustily the white people rained blows on their yellow brethren, and many a blood-stained European proved that the Chinese were getting some home themselves. The fight was desperate as far as the white men were concerned, for were not their women-folk above in the grand-stand. Once again the Chinese drew off with loud cries, and once more this desperate rider appeared; he threw himself from the saddle and joined the small band of defenders, and then a most extraordinary scene was enacted. A small pony, apparently all hoofs and teeth, took on the fight. Savaging, kicking, biting, he rushed among the frightened Chinese, while the exhausted white defenders marvelled at the supernatural animal and regained their breath for a fresh onslaught. The pony was Kwa Niu and his rider Gubbins. Kwa Niu played the very devil with his own compatriots, not because he owed any allegiance to his English owner, but because he was a devil from start to finish.

Suddenly a bugle rang out above the noise of the yelling mob, some horsemen in gaudy silk jackets dashed among the disordered Chinese, and deliverance arrived in the shape of a small party of American marines, headed by a young ensign with drawn sword.

“Why, there’s something doing in this one-horse little burg after all!” quietly remarked the smiling officer as his handful of marines turn and face the mob now fleeing in all directions. “Say, are the ladies all right? Good boys, I knew you’d look after them. Guess the rest of your Derby winners turned up in about time to turn us out.”

Now there was sudden relaxation from grave to gay. People rolled about in uncontrollable laughter, the tears streaming down their cheeks. Even the stolid marines smiled. And the cause for this unexpected merriment was Gubbins. There he stood in a black cap, but otherwise as nature made him. Finding all eyes directed on him, he assumed the colour known as salmon pink. However, his blushes were quickly hidden under a Newmarket coat, provided by someone who had sufficient control over his risibility to think intelligibly. None too soon was the youthful Gubbins covered up, for the ladies were now all anxiety to leave the racecourse and return to the safer protection of their own houses. The American marines and Sikhs escorted the ladies to their houses, guards were stationed and sentries posted about the town, and a somewhat anxious night passed off without further incident.

At an early hour next morning Foh arrived on horseback. He had ridden to Whang Chai and back, and had done many things during the night. He visited the various Consuls and principal business people of the community and explained that Ching and the other ringleaders of the riot had been captured and executed, that he had an efficient guard of fifteen hundred trusted soldiers then on their way to Ping Tu, and that for the prestige of all Europeans it was absolutely necessary that the races should be continued that day. The Europeans were at first doubtful, but they soon saw Foh’s arguments, and in due course the various wives had the proposal laid before them. To the everlasting credit of the tender sex be it told that not a woman hesitated. As the men thought it was the right thing to do, they all did it, and again the smart frocks from “home” adorned the grand-stand of the racecourse.

So far we have not understood why Gubbins made his opportune entry on Kwa Niu clad only in a black cap. The explanation discloses a little side-plot in the drama. In certain parts of the coast of England it used to be the practice of little children when going to bed to pray somewhat as follows: “Please, God, bless father! Please, God, bless mother; and please, God, send a wreck ashore before morning!” The prayer of these innocents possessed a counterpart in the feelings of some of the peaceable people of Ping Tu during race week. Their prayer, however, was that a rider might be thrown at the bend by the screw-pines in order that they might strip him of his coveted gaudy silk coat, his silk breeches, and good leather boots. To assist “providence” it occasionally happened that a jockey’s stirrup leathers were partly cut through with a sharp knife, so that on rounding a corner sharply one leather might give way and so unseat the rider. On this occasion they had chosen Gubbins for their victim, and his leathers were duly faked by his “mah foo.” Everything happened in due order for the benefit of the gentle Celestials. Kwa Niu was well behind the others, and threw his rider at the bend as desired. Gubbins got a nasty toss, and was for a few seconds unconscious, during which time he was stripped of everything except his cap. Suddenly regaining consciousness, he found himself surrounded by Chinese, and jumped up in great excitement, thinking he was about to be murdered. Fortunately for him, Kwa Niu was kicking and bucking around within a few yards. Wild with fear Gubbins rushed at the pony, vaulted into the saddle, and, as we know, went once round the course, and only managed to pull the brute up the second time he reached the grand-stand, where his arrival proved so opportune.

The second day of the races passed off with perfect quiet and order. Foh’s soldiers arrived in good time, and were more than sufficient to overawe the rabble. At last Mrs. British Consul stood up to give the prizes for the various races. The prizes for the first three races are given, and then comes the handsome bowl for the Derby.

“The Derby! Why, Kwa Niu was the only horse that finished!” says everyone, and the blushing Gubbins is pushed forward.

“Objection,” says the American Consul; “he never weighed in.”

“Go and weigh in,” says Shelford.

Of course it was quite unorthodox, but anyway Gubbins got his saddle and, amidst a laughing crowd of men, weighed in wearing a black cap only. Fortunately he had carried over weight, and as he stood his weight was exact. The decision was received with cheer upon cheer. Shelford had undoubtedly won the Derby, and Gubbins, hastily regaining his clothes, was carried before Mrs. British Consul.

Shyly he received the bowl, but when Mrs. Consul said, “I think your colours were pink with a black cap, Mr. Gubbins,” well, Mr. Gubbins’ colours might very well have been described as scarlet. “But we were all too upset to notice you,” kindly added the lady, “and, at all events, we think you and Kwa Niu saved our lives.”

Yes, it was a very popular win, and the missionaries are back in Whang Chai again. The pig-like To Phat has been removed to another district, and the mission-house and school have been rebuilt, and, I am glad to say, their new sites do not in any way encroach on the anatomy of the famous guardian dragon that lives beneath the hill in Whang Chai.

PLYMOUTH WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LIMITED PRINTERS

● Transcriber’s Notes: ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was corrected. ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected. ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only when a predominant form was found in this book. ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).