Routledge rides alone

by Will Levington Comfort

Two hours after midnight the rain ceased, and the wrung clouds parted for the moon. The hill country was passed. Routledge moved swiftly along the river-flats. It was the second night he had not slept, and his fatigue was no trifle, but he was drilled to endure. It was not in him to make a strongly reckonable matter out of muscular stiffness and cuticle abrasions. True, rain softens the glaze of a saddle, and long riding on the sticky leather tears the limbs, but Routledge had a body that would obey so long as consciousness lasted. He used it that night.

Five-thirty in the morning; daylight; sixty miles put behind. Ahead far in the new day he discerned the Japanese outposts of Fengmarong; and on the right hand was the big, mottled Liao, swollen with flood. If he were to be detained by the Japanese, he preferred it to be on the opposite bank—the Wangcheng side. Routledge rode up to the ferry-scow and called for service. Yellow babies were playing like cinnamon-cubs on the shore; two women were cooking rice and fish; two men were asleep in the sail-tackle. These he aroused. They helped him with the horses, half-lifting the weary, trembling beasts aboard. Cups of tea; rice with black dressing, as the scow made the opposite landing at a forty-five degree angle! A quick and safe crossing; and two hours for the Japanese lines, the American Consul, and the Chinese Eastern!... A distant call through the morning light! Bingley, horseless, imperiously demands the return of the craft to the Fengmorang bank.

Routledge had hoped to be missed by the other, at least until train-time. He smiled at the compelling incidents of the race thus far, and at the surpassing prospects—even though he chilled at the thought that the Japanese in Wangcheng would have big excuse to detain him if Bingley intimated that his rival had once betrayed England to the Russian spies on the Indian border. Consul Milner would sweat, indeed, to free him against that....

Yet Routledge had a feeling that he would win against Bingley. Work had always favored him. So far he had borne out the prophecy that he would not be wounded in battle, in a manner past astonishment. It was no less than a miracle—his escape from the firing of both armies at Liaoyang. Often during the night-ride he had thought of the wound that was to come to him—thought with a chill of dread of the lawless country he passed through. Now, with Wangcheng ahead, and in touch with the safe-lines of foreign-travel—the chance seemed minimized once more. There must be significance in this.... He looked back and saw the Chinese beating up against the river to the Fengmarong landing, where Bingley waited, doubtless frothing his curb.

At the edge of the town Routledge was arrested by a five-foot Japanese sentry, and was locked with his world tidings in a garrison, lately Russian, which overlooked Wangcheng’s little square. He wrote “A. V. Weed” on a slip of paper and asked to have it taken to Consul Milner; then sat down by the barred window to watch the Consulate across the Square. It was now seven o’clock. The train left in an hour, and the station was a mile away. Minutes dragged by.

An enlivening spectacle from the window. The “Horse-killer” is being borne across the Square under a Japanese guard! The little sentries at the edge of town have been busy, this sweet-smelling morning after the rain! Even at the distance, Routledge perceives that the Englishman’s face is warmed with a lust for murder, and he hears the Englishman’s voice demanding his Consul. Bingley is borne into the garrison, and his voice and step are heard throughout the halls. The voice continues—as he is locked in the apartment next to Routledge’s.

Fifteen dreadful minutes. Bingley is a noisy, unlovely devil in the next room, beating against his bars. Routledge remembers what Hans Breittmann said of the caged orang-outang: “There is too much ego in his cosmos.” The “Horse-killer” does not know that his rival is so near—as he cries unto his heaven of martial law, for artillery to shoot his way out of this town of beastly, pig-headed Japanese coolies!... A Consul appears in the Square. It is not the natty Milner, but an elderly Briton, with a cane and a presence, who just now asks to be shown to Mr. Bingley.... The two talk softly for several minutes—a harsh interval for Routledge.

“I shall do what I can as promptly as possible, Mr. Bingley—trust me,” concludes the Consul, and his cane sounds upon the flags once more—diminuendo.

“Remember, I must be on my way at once,” the “Horse-killer” shouts after him.

Seven-twenty. Where was Milner?... Routledge wondered bitterly if the Gods of War had turned their faces from him at last. A low laugh from Bingley. Milner was crossing the Square hastily, but did not approach the garrison—instead was admitted to the big building occupied by the Japanese headquarters.