CHAPTER XXIII. TRAPPED IN MANCHURIA.
A less energetic and determined individual than Mr. Frederic Larkin might well have felt discouraged when, successively fired upon by the Japanese and rejected by the Russians, he was thrust out of Port Arthur and landed in Chefoo. His pass from the War Office at Tokio had been taken from him when he first entered Port Arthur, and had not been returned. To present himself again at General Stoessel's headquarters was out of the question, even if the means were possible.
"The balloon route seems to be indefinitely suspended," mused Fred, as he rested on the hotel verandah in the Chinese city, "and without much doubt I should be definitely suspended—by the neck—if the Russians caught me a third time inside the fortress. No, there's no use in wasting time (and a good, serviceable neck) in trying to carry out home orders. I'll cable the Bulletin and ask for instructions."
This he did at once, and the answer arrived before night, from the editor of that enterprising sheet: "Get new pass. Join Japanese army at front. Remain till ordered home. No more balloon!"
Fred laughed as he crumpled the dispatch and thrust it into his pocket. With characteristic energy he obtained passage on a vessel chartered for Nagasaki, and within a week was on his way back to Manchuria with brand-new credentials from Tokio. Landing at Antung, at the head of the Korean bay, he engaged a man and a couple of ponies to take him and his baggage to the Japanese advanced lines, north of Liaoyang. This was in late February, 1905, when the ground was frozen hard and snow lay deep in the valleys and over the ice-bound streams of Manchuria.
It will shortly be seen that for once the reporter's energy proved his undoing, so far as active service at the front was concerned.
It was a bright, cold morning when he mounted his pony, after many provoking delays and setbacks from the local military authorities, and rejoiced to feel that he was really on his way northward. Kanuka, the guide and porter, strode along the path in advance, leading the pack pony, while Fred followed on the other little beast, whose bad temper was out of all proportion to his size.
Kanuka appeared to be a Chinaman who spoke, besides his own language—a Manchurian dialect—a very broken sort of English and Japanese. Larkin had not liked his looks, but time was precious and he hoped to get rid of the man after three or four days at the utmost. Kanuka was under-sized, and had a droop of the head which gave his eyes a sort of malevolent expression as he peered upward, under his shaggy brows. He stooped slightly, was sallow-faced, and, oddly enough, had grizzled, curly hair and a full black beard, like a Russian. He was in reality, as Fred afterward learned, a native of Eastern Siberia, though he dressed like a Chinaman and spoke like a Manchurian.
For a while the little train proceeded in silence, broken only by the snorting, kicking ponies and the harsh, guttural expletives of the guide, who belaboured them with his cudgel until Fred checked him.
"These ponies must last four days, my friend," he sung out. "If you keep up your style of correction there won't be more than two hoofs and an ear left by the time we reach Liaoyang."
Kanuka muttered something Larkin could not understand, and pointed to a low line of clouds in the west.
"What does that mean—storm?"
The man nodded.
"H'm. What's the nearest large town?"
"Feng-Weng-Chang."
"That's too far. There must be something nearer than that!"
Kanuka nodded again and made a gesture toward the north. "Good place to stop, near Yalu."
"Near the Yalu? But that's off our route, old chap. I guess we'll push on toward Feng-Weng-Chang. There must be some villages along the road."
The guide stolidly turned and plodded on without another word save a native oath or two addressed to the pony, which responded with a squeal and a sidewise kick with one hind-foot.
The clouds rose rapidly, and the cold grew more intense. The sky was now entirely covered, and a biting wind swept down through the valley of the Yalu. At noon Fred called a halt in the shelter of a clump of trees, and a hasty meal was prepared over a small fire, while the horses were given food and drink. The guide remained sullen and taciturn, but performed his duties well. Fred had a belt around his waist filled with gold pieces, as well as a pocket full of change.
"Look here, Kanuka," he said, as the cavalcade resumed their march, "you bring me to a house where we can be decently comfortable for to-night, and I'll hand you ten yen, in addition to your regular pay. See?"
The man shrugged his shoulders under his shaggy sheepskin cloak and pointed up to the sky.
"Snow soon," he said gruffly. "House that way"; and again he indicated the north.
"Well, we may have to come to it, but I don't want to go a foot off the main trail if I can help it. There are too many loose characters floating about these regions to make the country healthy for foreigners, away from the military roads—eh, Kanuka?"
A gleam came into the guide's dark eye, but passed like a flash. He only shrugged his shoulders again, and resumed the weary tramp along the frozen path.
Now a snow-flake floated downward and alighted on Fred's coat-sleeve. He surveyed it with interest.
"Kanuka," he observed, "you're a genius. You'd be a valuable aid to General Greely, over in my country, forecasting weather. The snow has arrived—a 'local area' of it, anyway. How long do you suppose it will last?"
"Two days."
"Whew! It's a poor lookout for equestrian excursions to the rural districts! Here it comes, in dead earnest!"
A gust of wind rushed down from the mountains, and in a minute the air was full of fine drift which stung the faces of men and horses like needles. The ponies whirled round and it was only by the utmost efforts of the rider and his attendant that they were forced to go on.
The landscape was now almost entirely lost to view. All Fred took note of was the snowy mane of his pony and the bowed back of the guide, urging the pack-horse up the path, which had of late grown much rougher and steeper. Hour after hour passed. Fred, buffeted by the blast and half-frozen as he crouched on the saddle, suddenly realised that it was growing darker. Night was falling. The new snow was now over the horses' fetlocks, and in places the drifts were nearly to the stirrups.
"Where are we, Kanuka?"
"Not far from Yalu. See—good house ahead!"
Fred wiped the frozen snow from his eyelashes and peered over the horse's head. Sure enough, there was the welcome sight of a light, gleaming hospitably through the gathering darkness.
"Good!" he ejaculated with stiff lips, under his icy moustache. "I thought we should find somebody living on this old Feng-Weng turnpike."
"This Yalu road," said the guide.
"What, have we left the main trail?"
"Two hours ago. No good to keep same road. All go sleep there—no wake up." The man had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of the storm.
Fred did not like this independent change of route, but going back was out of the question, and he was too cold to argue, with fire, shelter, and food close at hand.
"All right," he said briefly. "Keep on. We'll talk it over afterward."
Ten minutes later Kanuka halted before the door of a rude hut, which communicated with two or three small wings or out-houses. It was built of mud and rough stones and thatched with straw. There were several houses similar in character farther down the road. The little settlement was in a sheltered nook between two high hills, which, as the valley ran east and west, protected the huts, or hovels as they might well be called, from the full force of the gale.
Kanuka knocked at the door with his club, but it was some time before it was opened, although the light burning within, shining through the small window, showed that the occupants were awake. The guide was redoubling his blows and shouting in his own language, when the door swung inward, and an old woman appeared in the opening. A low colloquy ensued, and then Kanuka turned to his employer.
"She says we may spend the night here," he said, in better English than he had yet used. "Go you in and get warm, sir. I will care for horses."
With some difficulty Fred dismounted and stumbled in at the open doorway. He found himself in a small low-browed room, so filled with smoke that his eyes tingled, and so dirty that, hardened traveller as he was, he hesitated for a moment before removing his heavy coat.
The aged crone paid no further attention to her visitor, but resumed her preparations for the evening meal, which had been interrupted by Fred's appearance on the scene. There was a broad, irregular fireplace on one side of the room, and here a fire was blazing, with a black pot, from which rose a not unsavoury steam, suspended over the flames. Mumbling to herself, the mistress of the hut—for such she seemed to be—occupied herself in stirring the contents of the pot, and in dragging a small wooden table to the centre of the floor, which, like the table, the chairs, the walls, and the old woman herself, was grimy and redolent of filth.
Accustomed to adapt himself to all sorts of strange surroundings the reporter now removed his outer garments, and approached the fire with a propitiatory word to the woman; but she responded merely by pointing impatiently to a bench, and turning her back upon him. Nothing daunted Fred drew the bench nearer the fireplace and proceeded to thaw out his benumbed fingers with every outward appearance of content and satisfaction. To please himself rather than his hostess, who he knew could not understand a word he spoke, he continued to soliloquise aloud.
"You are not very sociable, ma'am," he said cheerfully, spreading out his hands to the blaze, "but actions speak louder than words, and the prospect of that 'boiled dinner' in the kettle fully compensates me for the lack of conventional attentions. Permit me!"
He saw that she was about to lift the pot from the fire, and stepping in front of her he proceeded to relieve her of the task, to which, in truth, with her bent and aged form, she hardly seemed equal.
A minute later the contents of the pot were heaped in a large wooden platter on the table. At this interesting point Kanuka entered from a rear door, stamping off the snow, and took his place on the bench beside Fred.
"Don't apologise, brother," said the latter, with perfect good-humour. "In great emergencies all men are free and equal—as they were born. See Constitution of the United States of America, line 3. Suppose we draw this seat up to the board, which groans with the delicacies of the season?"
Kanuka assented with a grunt, and, their hostess having supplied each with a large wooden spoon, they proceeded to eat from the dish; the "delicacies" being found to consist of rice, with some other unknown vegetables and bits of boiled beef.
There was but little said during the meal. The two natives ate in silence, and Fred was too much occupied in avoiding doubtful ingredients, in his own share of the common mess of reeking food, to put any unusual strain upon his conversational powers. The withered crone now produced a flask of vodka, which Fred at first refused, but of which the others partook freely. The effect of the liquor was to loosen their tongues somewhat, and they conversed with each other in low gutturals. Presently the woman took the vodka flask and left the room, returning shortly with a mug full of liquor, which she again proffered her guest.
"She has mixed it with snow," interpreted Kanuka, as she urged it upon him. "It is weak and will not hurt you."
Not to seem discourteous Fred drank a little, but soon drew back from the table.
"I'm not thirsty, Kanuka," said he, "but I am tired and sleepy. Are the animals provided for?"
Kanuka nodded. "Warm, and supplied with food."
"And my packs?"
"They are in the out-house."
"Very well; I'll go to sleep, if the lady of the house will point out my bedroom."
Kanuka spoke to the woman, who withdrew for a moment. She came back with two skins, one of a reindeer and the other a shaggy pelt which Fred did not recognise. She threw these down in a corner of the room, opposite the fire.
"There is your bed," said the guide. "Sleep well."
"Same to you," said Fred, yawning. "Good-night, ma'am!"
Neither of the Manchurians paid the slightest attention to him as he spread the rugs and stretched himself at full length between them. The wind roared around the little hut, and he could hear the snow beating against its sides. Before long Kanuka and the woman left him alone, having carefully covered the coals of fire with ashes, just as he had often seen his grandmother cover them in his New England home. Thinking about that home, and listening to the storm, he was soon sound asleep.
The travel-worn correspondent had a curious dream. He thought he was back on the old farm in Brookfield hoeing corn. There was snow between the hills, and instead of drawing up warm, brown earth around the six-inch blades of corn, he packed them nicely in snow, shivering as he did so. There were icicles on his hoe and he could hardly have kept at work had he not been aided by two Manchurian ponies who pawed the snow toward the hills, and asked him to hurry, for a balloon was coming for them at precisely four o'clock. He was by no means surprised to hear them speak, especially as one of them was dressed in a ragged gown and the other in a sheepskin cloak.
"What time is it?" asked the old-woman pony sharply. He was too cold to look, and both ponies started to fumble at his watch-guard with their hoofs. Their eyes flashed fire. He began to be afraid, and made a tremendous effort to push them back, but he could not move a finger. With a cry of terror he awoke.
Awoke to find himself bound, hand and foot, with the light of the greasy lamp shining in his face. The old hag was stooping over him and drawing his watch from his pocket. By the dim light in the room he saw half a dozen wild-looking men standing around him. All were armed and their bearded faces were wolfish. Kanuka knelt beside him tying the last knot in the rope that bound his ankles together. As he caught sight of Fred's wide-open eyes fixed upon him he uttered an exclamation and drew a long knife from his belt.