Stan Lynn: A Boy's Adventures in China

At this point he straightened his fingers, which were crooked over a ragged piece of bamboo, and plosh! he went down feet first with a heavy, sucking noise; the water closed over his head with a deep, thundering roar, and keeping himself quite rigid and his eyes wide-open, he waited till, after what seemed an immensely long time in darkness, his head rose above the ruddy surface of the water, and he found that he had turned as the current carried him along, so that he was looking at the rotten old vessel he had left.

Stan was skilful swimmer enough to reverse his position, and found it none too soon, for there was the boat he sought to reach some forty yards away, and so much out of the course he was taking that he had to begin swimming till he was well in a line with his goal, but so much nearer that as he ceased striking out he was close upon the anchor-line.

The next minute he had touched it gently, and at the happiest moment for his success, the boy having hooked a fish – a large one – which took up his attention so much that Stan softly seized the bow with both hands, let his legs float on the swift current, and then by a quick effort drew himself well up and rolled over into the bottom of the boat, where he lay quite still beside the folded-up little matting sail.

The boat rocked so that the owner looked sharply over his left shoulder, but not far enough to see the invader of his boat; and probably attributing the movement to his own exertions, he went on playing his big fish; while, reaching up his hands, Stan got hold of the painter and began to haul, till, to his great delight, he weighed the little anchor, and saw that the stream was carrying them down.

Still the boy did not turn, but hauled away at his line and gave it out again, as if afraid that if he were too hard upon his prize it would break away.

This went on for a good five minutes, till, apparently satisfied, the boy sank upon his knees and reached over the stern, hanging down so as to get a shorter hold, and ended by bringing the fish’s head well within reach, and while holding on with his left hand, he crooked his right finger ready, so as to turn it into a gaff-hook.

Stan saw a part of what was going on, and suspected the rest, as he seized his opportunity to get hold of the anchor-stock.

The next moment the fisher had raised himself up and swung a fish of some five pounds weight flop into the boat; while, as if acting by a concerted motion, Stan reached over and swung in the little grapnel – the actions of the lads bringing them round, from being back to back, now face to face.

Flop! flap! flap! went the fish.

Bang! bang! went the anchor.

“Oh!” ejaculated the Chinese lad, opening his mouth wide.

“Hah!” ejaculated Stan, springing up to seize his adversary.

But the latter did not wait to be seized.

Grasping the fact that the boat was gliding down-stream, and that he was face to face with a foreign devil, he raised his hands together well above his head and dived over the side in the easiest, most effortless way, gliding over like a blue seal blessed with a bald head and a big tail; when, as Stan dropped down in the boat, keeping only his head over the side, he saw him rise again far enough behind, and begin swimming with all his might for the shore.

Stan had something else to do besides watch the boy. He had some knowledge of boat management, and felt that he must risk everything now in the way of being seen; so, seizing the little mast, he stepped it, hauled up the yard and with it the matting sail, found it easy enough to get in position, and in five minutes more, as he drifted rapidly down with the stream, he had the mat sheeted home, and an oar over the stern for rudder. With the evening breeze quite sufficient for the purpose, he found himself gliding rapidly down the river, able to steer while lying down upon his back pretty well out of sight, and not a sound behind announcing that there was any pursuit.

“Hah!” he panted out at last. “They’ll have to come fast to catch me now. I wonder how far that poor fellow has to go before he can get help and another boat. Oh! if it would only turn dark, I could escape.

“What’s that?” he ejaculated, raising his head; for there was a loud smack as if something had struck one of the planks of the boat, and he turned cold with a despairing feeling, being sure that something had happened to check his flight.

But three or four more sharp spangs on the bottom of the craft enlightened him directly after, and he bore smilingly upon his oar so as to give a junk anchored in the river a wide berth, thinking the while of the shore lower down and a fire, if it was to be had, at which he could try his hand at cooking; for he knew with joy in his heart that the noise was made in the expiring efforts of what he meant to be his supper trying to leap over the side and failing dismally.

“Hah!” sighed Stan again. “I never saw it turn dark so rapidly before. In another few minutes it will be impossible for any one to see me from the shore.”

In fact, as he glided abreast of the anchored junk he saw a man busy at work hoisting a great round yellow paper lantern to the mast-head, too busy to pay any heed to him; and soon after he could see light after light beginning to dot the broad surface of the stream.

“I’m going to escape,” cried the poor fellow exultantly. “Oh, if I only can!”

Flap! said the fish softly, turning his thoughts into another groove.

“Yes, I hear you,” said Stan. “Fish – roast fish must be as good as fried. I wonder whether there’s a lantern anywhere on board. If there is there’ll be – Hooray! I’ve got my little silver box of matches in my revolver-pocket. I only wish I had my pistol too. But even if I hadn’t got the matches, I could glide up quietly to one of those boats, lower down and steal a lantern in the dark, and slip away.

“Steal! Yes, steal,” he said, laughing bitterly. “That’s the way these things grow. I begin by stealing the Chinese soldiers’ prisoner; then I steal a boat with a lot of fish; and now I’m thinking quite coolly of stealing a lantern. Who’d ever have thought that I should turn out such a thief?”

The fish gave one more flap, and lay still in the bottom of the boat like something of silver very dimly seen.

“I’m horribly hungry,” muttered Stan; “but the boat goes splendidly, and I’ll eat some of that fish raw before I’ll run her ashore to make a fire. Why not? I dare say it wouldn’t taste bad, and I only want just enough to keep me alive. I shall eat a piece as soon as it’s quite dead.”

An hour later he was tasting raw fish for the first time, and finding that it tasted very fishy indeed, but not more so than a big oyster just torn from its newly opened shell.

Chapter Seventeen

“What’s the Matter?”

The night proved to be brilliant, for the moon was nearly at its full, so that, the wind being favourable and the current swift, sunrise the next morning found the fugitive far beyond pursuit. There was not a boat in sight, and as far as he could see on either side stretched the wide-open country, from the winding river’s banks right away to the distant hills; and when at times as the day wore on, with the boat gliding down fast, any craft came in sight, Stan had his choice of sides to take on the great river, and naturally he hugged the shore opposite to that taken by the trading-junk or smaller boat. Now and then he could see farm-buildings or clusters of village cottages, with an occasional pagoda. Once he passed a more pretentious collection of houses, like a small town, but it was some distance up a stream that joined the river; and as he sailed farther on, it was into cultivated land where traces of inhabitants were very few. Towards evening he took advantage of the fact that there was neither house nor boat in sight to run his little craft ashore where a patch of woodland came right down to the stream; and here in an opening he collected sufficient dead branches and twigs to make a fire, whose smoke was diffused among the boughs overhead, feeding it well till there were plenty of glowing embers, over which he roasted the best of his fish. He spent an hour or so in eating heartily and, after roasting, cooling down enough in a pot he found in the boat so as to have an ample supply for the next two days.

Grilled fish and cold river water seemed to ask for something else, but Stan had plenty of strong young appetite, and he was ready to congratulate himself upon having done so well; and in excellent spirits he quenched the fire with the water-pot when he had done, and pushed off at once.

That late afternoon and evening he sailed on till the moon was right overhead, when, feeling more secure, he made fast to a tree; and utterly unable to battle against an overpowering feeling of drowsiness, he slept in the bottom of the boat, with the matting sail for cover, till the morning sun was well up.

That day, as he was passing a solitary house about a hundred yards from the bank, where he could see a couple of women at work in an enclosed field, he ran the boat inshore, the women in answer to his signs coming to the bank to stare at him. Then by means of the little Chinese he knew, and the offer of the figured white silk neckerchief he wore in exchange, he not only obtained a good supply of cake-bread and some eggs, but the women made him some tea before he pushed off again.

Encouraged by his success, he fished the next day, had excellent sport, and bartered some of his prizes at a house for a couple of dozen fine potatoes, whose fate it was later on to be roasted in the embers of one of his fires.

And in this fashion, without any noteworthy experience, Stan dropped down the river, losing count of the days in the monotony of the journey, but always obtaining a sufficiency of provisions of some kind or another in exchange for the plentiful supply of fish he caught in the evenings after sundown, or else for some portion of his clothes – for his watch, money, and knife had disappeared in the prison, he never knew how.

In fact, the escape down the river, under the happy circumstances which fell to his lot, was simple in the extreme, it being easy enough to avoid the boats and junks he met, as well as the more inhabited parts of the shore.

He kept a sharp lookout during the last three days, expecting every hour to catch sight of the great hong towering up by the right bank of the river; but it was far longer than he expected before it appeared, and even then proved to be much more distant than he could have believed.

At last, however, there it was, with a river-boat drawn up to the wharf, and by degrees he made out one of the big coolies; then Lawrence, the foreman, came out of the office door, but he took no notice of the white figure in the little native boat when Stan stood up and waved his hand.

“Why, I should have thought he would have known me directly,” grumbled Stan to himself. “Ah! now we shall see,” he cried joyously as a tall familiar figure came out, crossed the wharf, and stood talking to some one in the river-boat.

Stan waved his hand so excitedly now that he was seen, and he noted that the tall figure shaded its eyes and then turned to speak to one of the boatmen, who hurried in through the door of the warehouse and returned with something which the tall figure held up to its eyes.

“He’ll see me now,” said Stan to himself.

He was right, for the next minute a hand was being waved by the manager, who stood ready to exchange grips with Stan as he ran his boat up alongside the wharf and stepped ashore.

That evening was passed in the relation of adventures and a discussion about the fate of Wing.

“I’m afraid – very much afraid – that he was killed by the savages,” said Stan sadly at last.

“Savages – cowardly savages!” cried Blunt angrily. “But I don’t know; old Wing is a very slippery gentleman, and knows his way about pretty well. I’m not going to give him up for a bad job yet.”

“You think he has escaped?” said Stan excitedly.

“I hope so,” was the reply. “Things are not so bad as they might have been. You see that amongst the soldiery there is a feeling of respect for the English name.”

“Respect!” cried Stan indignantly. “You don’t fully grasp how they treated me.”

“Yes, I do, Lynn; for they didn’t kill you, and with people who hold life so cheaply that is saying a great deal. Well, my lad, it has been an adventure that you will never forget, and I’m very glad you have escaped so well. You don’t feel much the worse for it all?”

“Not in the least. But it’s delightful to get to civilisation again, and I’m looking forward to lying in a clean bed once more. I shall sleep to-night after what you have said about Wing.”

“I suppose so. But I say,” continued Blunt dryly; “wouldn’t you have liked to bring that monkey away with you?”

“I should,” cried Stan eagerly.

“Yes, of course; but it’s as well not. I know those chaps. They’re wonderfully strong and vicious. Only safe in a cage. We couldn’t have done with him here. I say, shouldn’t you like to make one with me in an expedition to knock that prison to pieces?”

“Yes,” cried Stan eagerly. “Could it be done?”

“Yes, if we went to war; but I dare say if proper application were made we could get compensation. We shall see I say, though, what about that gathering of war-junks you saw? Not piratical craft, were they?”

“I don’t know,” replied Stan. “I had thought no more of them. I thought more, however, of that poor boy’s boat that I took.”

“Ah! that was a bit of an annexation. Never mind; I’ll send it back to the Chinese merchants we deal with; they’ll find out whom it belongs to.”

“’Longs to,” said Stan slowly.

“Hullo!” cried Blunt. “What’s the matter? Feel ill?”

“Hi? I – Oh, I can’t help it; I’m so stupidly sleepy I can’t keep my eyes open, and I could hardly understand what you said last – so dreadfully drowsy I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll tell you,” said Blunt, smiling.

“Do, please. Go and bathe my face?”

“No,” said Blunt. “Off with you and tumble into bed.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Not a bit Dead.”

“What will you do about poor Wing?” said Stan the morning after his return, when he was out on the wharf, all the better for bed, bath, and breakfast.

“Wait,” said Blunt, frowning.

“Wait? In such an emergency, with the poor fellow regularly murdered?”

“We don’t know that yet, youngster,” said the manager. “You did not see him murdered, and you did not see his body.”

“No; but – ”

“Exactly; but I’ve known Wing longer than you have. He is a very quiet fellow, but he is full of resource, and being amongst his fellow-countrymen, I think it very doubtful about his having been killed.”

“I only hope you are right,” said Stan; “but there was a desperate fight.”

“No – not desperate. You see that though you were one they looked upon as an enemy they did not kill you, and evidently never intended anything of the kind.”

“Well, no; I don’t think they meant to kill me.”

“I’m sure they did not. If they had, they would have done it. In fact, I hardly know why they took you at all. It seems to me more out of idle recklessness than anything else; a party of rough soldiery with nothing to do, and under very little control. They have some discipline, but it is very slight. It’s a rarity for them to get any pay, even when they are on duty. There seems to have been a detachment hanging about the gate of the city, doing as they pleased, and dependent upon the people coming in to the market for their supplies. They saw you, a stranger, passing the place; and as there was no one to check them, they followed and pounced upon you.”

“But what for?”

“Ah! what for? I can only place one construction upon the act.”

“And what is that?” asked Stan.

“The one you suggested.”

“I? I suggested none.”

“Yes – by your words. What did you say they did?”

“Nothing but behave to me in a very insulting way, and refuse to carry a message or fetch help.”

“Yes, they did.”

“Yes, I see what you mean. The insolent creatures! They treated me just as if I were another monkey.”

“To be sure; and made a show of you.”

“Yes,” said Stan, beginning to swell with indignation. “Brought no end of people into the yard beyond the bars of the prison grating.”

“And who were the people?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Rough-looking country-folk.”

“To be sure. People coming in from the country; and if we knew the truth of the matter, depend upon it, they took some toll in some kind of provisions for giving them a peep at the Tchili monkey and the foreign devil they had caught.”

“Oh, I say, Mr Blunt, don’t!” cried Stan quickly. “It’s horrible. It’s so degrading.”

“Well, it was not pleasant, my lad,” said the manager, smiling; “but you couldn’t help its being degrading, and you gave them the slip.”

“But you’ll send a report to my father and uncle, so that they can lay the matter before the Consul?”

“I will if you like; but if I do, it will be a very long business. It will be to maintain the English dignity, but only at the expense of a few poor wretches in a distant part of the country, who will be taken and bastinadoed – perhaps decapitated.”

“Oh! I don’t wish that,” cried Stan quickly.

“Whether you wish it or not it will be done, to quiet the foreign settlers and traders and to keep up our prestige. It may be right, only the mischief is that the right men will not be punished.”

“What! not the soldiers?”

“No,” said Blunt; “they’ll escape for certain. The mandarins will never catch them.”

“Then I shouldn’t like to feel that I had been the cause of the punishment of innocent people. But I do feel that such a crime as the murder of poor Wing ought not to go unpunished.”

“So do I,” said Blunt; “and it must not. But, as I say, we don’t know that he is dead yet.”

“But where is he?”

“I don’t know: Let’s wait a bit and see. It is quite possible that he is making his way back by land, as the boat was sent home, and it may be days yet before we see him. It is quite as possible that we may not see him for a long time, for he will be afraid to show his face here on account of losing you.”

“But he’ll get to know that I escaped,” cried Stan.

“Some day, perhaps. Then he’ll come – delighted. Let’s wait, for it may be some days or weeks, hanging about as he will be in the country, which is terribly unsettled, as I have just learned, by a fresh incursion of pirates and disbanded soldiers. Wait, my lad – wait. By-and-by perhaps I may be able to come down heavily upon one of the up-country mandarins for compensation; but we shall see. China is a place where matters move very slowly, and law and order are very seldom at home. I don’t like the news at all that I have been hearing about what is going on up-country. It hinders trade, too. I’m very glad, however, that you are safely back, instead of being weeks wandering about from plantation to plantation.”

“Then you feel pretty sure that Wing is not dead?”

“No, not pretty sure,” replied Blunt; “only very hopeful about his being alive. What do you think of that?”

“That I feel much better satisfied. It would have been bad enough if any poor servant of the hong had suffered, but horrible for Wing to have come to so sudden an end. I liked Wing.”

“So did – So do I,” said Blunt, correcting himself. “Cheer up. He’ll come along smiling some day, as soon as he hears you are back.”

Something happened much sooner than either of the Europeans at the hong anticipated.

The next day Stan talked a good deal with Lawrence, the foreman of the coolies, and several of the clerks about Wing’s absence, and could not find one who believed that the man was dead.

“Unless he has fallen amongst pirates,” said Lawrence. “That would be different. He had charge of you, and he lost you. Ergo, as the old fellow in Shakespeare says, he’s afraid to meet Mr Blunt. I should feel just the same if I were Mr Wing.”

Stan felt more encouraged still; and the very next morning, as he was going through the big warehouse, his attention was suddenly caught by a figure stepping out of a small sampan which had just reached the side after crossing the river.

“Hi! Mr Blunt!” cried Stan. “Look through that window. Isn’t that Wing?”

“Wing?” replied the manager thoughtfully as he bent down to examine the Chinese brand on one of a stack of tea-chests. “Not likely yet. He has a long way to come overland.”

“But I’m sure I saw him step out of a boat on to the wharf.”

“Hardly likely. These fellows look so much alike in their blue frocks and glazed hats. Where did you see him? – Why, hullo! Well done! It is he after all.”

For just then the object of their conversation came slowly in through the open door, ragged, worn out, and dejected, the very shadow of the trim, neat Chinaman familiar to Stan. Coming out of the bright sunshine, he stood with puckered face blinking and looking about, and so weak and weary that he seemed to be glad to hold on by the first pile of bales he reached.

There he stood, peering about till he dimly made out the tall, upright, unmistakable figure of the manager in his white garb, when he made a deprecating movement with his hands as if about to salaam like a Hindu, and he was in the act of bending down when he suddenly saw Stan.

In an instant the man’s whole manner was changed. Throwing up his hands, he uttered a hoarse cry, and ran forward to throw himself upon his knees at the lad’s feet, flinging his arms about his legs, and then burst forth into a fit of sobbing, crying like a woman, and the next minute laughing hysterically.

“Wing t’ink young Lynn go dead. Wing t’ink bad soljee man killee dead young Lynn. Oh deah! oh deah! Come along. Walkee allee way tellee Misteh Blunt. Ha, ha, ha! Allee light now. Give poo’ Wing eatee dlinkee. Feel dleadful bad. Allee light now. Oolay! oolay! oolay!”

The poor fellow began his cheer fairly, but ended it in a miserable squeak, and then loosened his grasp of Lynn, and pressing his sleeve-covered hands to his mouth to stifle the hysterical cries struggling to escape, he began to rock himself to and fro; while Stan, who felt touched by the poor fellow’s display of emotion, stood patting his shoulder and trying to calm him.

“No, no, Wing; not a bit dead,” he said, with a husky laugh. “They took me prisoner and shut me up. Why, I’ve been thinking you were killed. What became of you? How did you get away from the brutes?”

“Wing tellee soon. Wing tellee soon. Allee chokee chokee. Got floatee velly full. Makee cly like big boy so glad young Lynn allee ’live.”

“Well, it makes me ready to laugh to find you’re alive,” said Stan, though his features did not endorse his words. “Here, tell us where you have been.”

“Evelywheh,” said the poor fellow. “Bad soljee put big pitchfolks to Wing, makee lun away. Keep folly Wing. Wing tly come back. Soljee put pitch-folk to Wing back and dlive light away. Makee lun velly fass. Come light away tell Misteh Blunt. Allee way soljee, allee way pilate. Wing wantee lie down and die. Wantee come tellee young Lynn plisneh. Wing t’inkee nevah get back to hong. Come at las’ find young Lynn allee ’live. Wing leady lie down die now.”

The poor fellow sank over sideways as he said the last words very feebly, and it was quite evident that he was not very far from death’s door through his exhaustion.

“Poor beggar!” said Blunt gruffly. “There’s no deception here. Get something out for the poor fellow at once, Lawrence. Look at him; he must have suffered horribly. He looks as if he has been travelling night and day. My word! I’ll never think him a coward again. Fancy coming to meet me with such news as that! I should have been ready to kill him if it had been true.”

Chapter Nineteen

“Big Junk Boat.”

Poor Wing lay for about a couple of hours, during which everything possible was done, and then he began to recover rapidly, when, after superintending, the manager insisted upon the poor fellow doing nothing but try and sleep.

“Wing wantee tell Misteh Blunt evelyting,” he said, with a piteous look.

“Not now,” said Blunt sharply. “Get well first.”

“Allee velly dleadful,” said the poor fellow feebly.

“Yes, I know; but I’m not going to blame you, my man. You did your best. Get strong again, and tell me all about the troubles then.”