Harry Alverson Franck

One of our military attachÉs at Peking purposed to see China’s Far West before the cycle of duties called him home to a regiment, and he consented to have company. At least if it chanced to please the bandits who were just then using that means to coerce the incoherent Government to add us to their growing collection of foreign hostages, there would be some advantage in companionship.

The major had business in Honan before I could leave Peking, and took the newly captured cook with him, leaving the “boy,” Chang, who maltreated considerable English and was to be our most important link with the outside world, to wait with me for the next biweekly express. Below the junction for Shansi, where daylight overtook us, the landscape was still as flat as about Peking; but there were more trees, bushy as the mango, though thinner of foliage, many trees, indeed, for China. Though it was already late October, the leaves had hardly begun to turn, and that brilliant sunshine and utter cloudlessness which is one of the greatest charms of dry, denuded North China so many days each year made it seem still almost midsummer. The broad, fenceless fields swarmed with people, mainly engaged, as far as a passing glimpse could tell, in picking cotton and threshing peanuts. The cotton was in some places so thin that even the frugal Chinese apparently did not find it worth gathering, while the best of it, on plants scarcely knee-high, was nothing to exhibit at a fair. Women gone cotton-picking had the advantage of trousers, but this was more than offset by the bound feet on which they hobbled from bush to bush. In contrast to those long two-bushel bags the negroes drag behind them through the fertile cotton-fields of our South, a kind of newsboy’s sack at the waist, or a pocketed apron, seemed to be quite large enough here.

It was hard to distinguish the many heaps of peanuts from the still more numerous graves. With enough of this baseball and circus delicacy within one sweep of the eye to satisfy a ravenous city on the Fourth of July, there came back to mind the touching story of the fond American mother who sent her dear son in China a box of peanuts for Christmas, so that he might for a little while be reminded of home. Even small children were helping to pull them, and to pile the nuts in grave-like mounds of careless cone shape. Of the graves themselves there was literally no end, until the landscape for long stretches seemed to grow nothing else. Yet the land was a veritable market-garden, so great is the individual care of Chinese fields in all their processes. Here and there, in place of the far more common tilling by hand, was a plow, drawn by two or three mules; but naturally you cannot plow to advantage if you must dodge grandfather’s grave every trip across a short field, after that great-grandfather’s, and then that of the father before him, back to more than remote generations. If only the old gentlemen would consent to lie in a row, or even in a companionable cluster, or to be laid away in a real graveyard where the little cones of earth might perhaps be kept green even in China, instead of being rare, rain-gashed heaps of dried mud as hallowed as a pile of peanuts!

Yet sometimes there is a hint of reverence, rather than of mere superstition, about a collection of half a dozen of these untended mounds drifting through the centuries with no other evidence of care than the slender shade of a single tree bent over them, like some faithful old servant still respectfully waiting to do their bidding. A suggestion of this comes now and then even to the disapproving foreigner, aghast at the wicked wastefulness of China’s burial methods; and certainly the peasant himself, the only one after all whom it greatly concerns, develops no spirit of criticism, no thought of revolt. A plow being in most cases inconvenient among his ancestral mounds, he digs away about them by hand year after year, generation after generation, as those same ancestors did century after century. Naked to the waist even in these late autumn days, his body burned to the hue of old polished mahogany, he never disturbs them, and rarely if ever mends them.

There were still reminders of the summer’s crops,—sweet potatoes, onions, lettuce, cabbages, carrots; but there was little if any evidence of the house-high kaoliang that stretches for unbroken miles across more northern China, all the north, indeed, of this province of Chihli. Country-women hobbling slowly and painfully about on their crippled feet were everywhere, even the most ugly, weather-beaten, and work-worn of them boasting this fancied form of beauty. Blindfolded donkeys and mules marched patiently round and round hither and yon across the landscape, some about ancient well-curbs, lifting by great wooden wheels water for the irrigation ditches that are so widely needed in this deforested, rain-stingy land, others rotating big stone rollers for the hulling or grinding of wheat. Brick-kilns, which the Chinese seal up for long periods with their contents, stood forth like rudely chiseled monuments or artificial hillocks. The earth was worn away around everything, walls, trees, roadsides, monuments, those great slabs of stone, top-heavy with carved dragons, that may be seen anywhere; for great portions of China are half-desert, dry as dust, of a moistureless brown soil ready to wash or blow away at the least provocation, and slavishly dependent upon irrigation. Chinese farming methods, too, increase this erosion. Everywhere men were cutting off the top layer of soil and screening the earth into many little mounds that stretched in long rows across the sunken fields. Later they “spread this between the wheat,” if I understood Chang’s laborious explanation; that is, they use it as a kind of fertilizer, sometimes mixed with the droppings of animals gleaned along the roads, as well as for the building of the many little low field-dikes.

Barely over the boundary of Honan, where it thrusts itself in a point that recalls the “gerrymandering” of the West into the two provinces bounding it on the north, is Changte, burial-place of Yuan Shih-kai. A tomb evidently rivaling those of the most powerful emperors, certainly larger and more sumptuous than that of Mencius not far east of here in Shantung, rises among great trees within easy sight from the train. But it is not covered in imperial yellow, for the new dynasty that the occupant hoped to found, and which, if numerous examples in Chinese history still mean anything, would have been the more natural development, failed to materialize, less because of wide-spread republican sentiment, one suspects, than for lack of tact, among the virtues of political sagacity, in the make-up of what might have been the founder.

Yuan Shih-kai is the father, so to speak, of the curse of swarming soldiers that now overrun China. For it was he who first saw in Korea, when he was a mere officer of the Manchus, the first Western-style soldiers, and who coaxed the Government to start what has become the present military misfortune of China. There were “soldiers” everywhere now—in China one must use the word with a grain of salt, for to put a simple country youth or a mere coolie into a faded gray cotton uniform and hand him something resembling a weapon does not make a real warrior, as the sight of rows of men standing at “present arms” and at the same time staring back over their shoulders at a strolling foreigner suggested. These artless, slouch-shouldered fellows lounged with fixed bayonets along the graveled platform of every station; they packed the trains to overflowing; they were drilling in companies and battalions, once or twice, it seemed, in whole regiments, on bare, dusty fields along the way. Had the half of them been genuine soldiers there should not have been a bandit within a month’s march in any direction.

At Chengchow next morning the head of a man, his long hair carefully wrapped about it, as if that were much more precious than what had been his neck, lay a yard from his trunk, hands and feet rudely tied with ropes, out on the bare space before the station. Perhaps he had really deserved this frequent, casual Chinese fate, and was not the simple coolie substituted for influential or unattainable criminals which his appearance somehow suggested. The curious strolled over to see him, but the eating-stalls just in front lost none of their custom or their cheerfulness; by noon the body was gone, and dogs had licked up the great patch of blood that had spread between head and trunk.

The major had already gone westward, and it was not until months later that I visited Kaifeng, capital of Honan, long after the “Christian General” had been transferred from there to Peking. Fu Hsi lived there a little matter of 4775 years ago and not only ruled the Chinese but, if we are to believe all we hear, taught them to fish with nets—the Yellow River being but a supernatural stone’s throw away—to rear domestic animals, to use the lute and lyre, in a way, one suspects, that has not changed since, and spent the leisure time left him in instituting laws of marriage and inventing a system of writing by using pictures as symbols. No doubt he played some antediluvian species of golf and lectured on the necessity of large families also, but early history is often careless in preserving “human interest” details. What we do know is that Kaifeng was the capital of China under the Sung dynasty, from 960 A.D. until the court was captured by the Kins nearly two centuries later, a brother of the emperor escaping to Nanking and setting himself up in his place, and remained a kind of capital of the Kins until they were finally overthrown by their fellow-Tartars, the Mongols. Since then the city has apparently been content with its provincial status.

Its wall encloses a mammoth space, much greater than that of TaiyÜan, for instance, but with great open spaces within it. Lakes before the “dragon throne” in the center of the enclosure, though in the West they would more probably be called ponds, give the site mildly a suggestion of Peking. In a far corner the tieh-tah, or “iron pagoda,” is worth coming to see, though the only iron visible about it is the Buddhas in relief peering out of each opening up its thirteen stories. Of a beautiful glazed color of reddish brown with imperial yellow specking it, one might also call it the world’s largest porcelain. The keeper insisted that it was two thousand years old, but I fear tradition uncorrected by the printed page had deceived him as to the date of the Buddhist invasion of China, to which her pagodas are due.

There was a busy, almost a pleasant atmosphere about Kaifeng, with its moderately wide streets, and rickshaw-men almost as fast as those of Peking; though squeaking wheelbarrows for all manner of freight, with women on tiny feet sometimes straining in front of them, were numerous. Feng YÜ-hsiang, China’s far-famed Methodist, cleaned up Kaifeng in the Christian sense during the six months he was ruler of Honan there. He drove out prostitutes; the extraordinary sight of soldiers sprinkling chloride of lime with their own fair hands wherever it was needed was but one of many such during his days. The only scandal that seemed to hover about his memory was an inordinate love for ice-cream, which reduced him to the point of sending a soldier for his share on those Sundays when he could not dine with the American missionaries in person. But Feng was evidently too good a Tuchun of Honan to suit his master Wu Pei-fu. The fellow who has taken his place has merely the outward honors of the office; Wu gives him his orders in everything of importance, and has his own auditors on the spot. Meanwhile the figurehead enjoys his opium, his singsong-girls, and his prestige, while the city slips back into the habits of which Feng attempted to cure it, and soldiers now and then run amuck in it. A thousand mere boys drill a month or two in compounds recently walled for them in the very outskirt where the missionaries built in the hope of an un-Chinese bit of quiet now and then, and pass on into the ever-swelling armies to make room for as many of their fellows. Bugles blare seven days a week long before the June hour of dawn, and all day long the recruits do their worst to sing scraps of Western music as they march.

The chief interest in Kaifeng to the traveler in quest of the unusual, however, is its Jews. The Chinese call them “Yu-t’ai,” which undoubtedly is derived from “Judea,” though whether by word of mouth or merely geographically is not clear. They came many generations ago, just when or why neither their neighbors nor they themselves seem to know. To-day they consist of “seven names and eight families”; that is, there are eight Jewish families who have between them seven family names, every one, as I have mentioned before, being compelled by circumstances over which he has no control to adopt one of the hundred and some Chinese surnames when he settles in China. Some doubt whether there are a hundred individuals left; the present head of the clan put the number at “one or two hundred.” They seem to have lost every vestige of Jewish identity, except the name they are all known by, which persistently survives. All those I saw looked less Jewish than do some of the Chinese; certainly their features would not definitely distinguish them from their neighbors, though the “head Jew” boasts that several persons have come to take his photograph “because he has such a big nose.” I ran this man Chao to earth for a somewhat similar purpose, and found him and his son keeping a little shop in a slovenly part of town, stripped to the waist and otherwise conducting themselves quite like Chinese a bit above the coolie class. Their home behind had not an un-Chinese hint about it—unless it was a large photograph of the father and son with a very Russian Jew from New York between them, which occupied a conspicuous place. But they were if anything more friendly, more bubbling over with excitement at a visit from a foreigner and the awe this inspired among their crowding neighbors, than pure Chinese of their class would have been. The merry little father, it seems, has twice been in jail charged with murder, if that really means anything concerning a man’s character in China; the fact that he had gotten out again suggested that there could scarcely have been much evidence against him, for the Jews of Kaifeng are not wealthy.

They intermarry with the Chinese, and some have even taken up Chinese idol-worship; the rite most insisted upon by orthodox Jewry has not been practised for generations. Formerly they had what they called a synagogue, but about fifty years ago this was completely destroyed, and does not seem to have been kept in repair even until then. There has been no attempt to restore it, and a stone tablet that stood within it is all that is left. On this last relic is engraved a sketch of Hebrew history and the names of the patriarchs. Once it bore also the names of the principal Jewish families in Kaifeng, but these were obliterated in order to throw off the scent those who tried some decades ago to persecute them. This tablet, by the way, is now in the compound of the Kaifeng mission of the Canadian Episcopal Church. No one in Kaifeng, as far as is known, can read Hebrew, and the clan seems long ago to have lost any interest in Judaism. Several portions of Hebrew scriptures have been found on the streets for sale, evidently as mere curios. The chief Jew proposed one day, in a talkative mood, that he order all the Jews to become Christian and join the church of the American missionary with whom he was speaking—because he had had a quarrel with the pastor of the other church.

The father of two likely-looking Jewish lads who attend the American mission school is a silversmith and has some means, but as a group the Jews of Kaifeng have not yet developed any Chinese Rothschilds or Guggenheims; nor is the wealth of the city in their control. In other words they seem to have become completely “un-Jewed,” if the expression be allowed, which is their chief claim to interest. For the Chinese, I believe, are the only people in the world who have completely broken the racial tradition of the Jews for remaining a distinct race. The slow and patient sons of Han have blotted out the marks that have identified the sons of Abraham for thousands of years, as they have pacifically assimilated race after race that has come into close contact with them, and it should occasion no great surprise if the Jewish colony of Kaifeng were entirely lost within another generation.

Soldiers were particularly numerous on the “Lunghai” line west from Chengchow, for this led to the headquarters of China’s just then most powerful general, Wu Pei-fu. Chang and I fell to talking with some of them in the crowded third-class coach. They were all volunteers—except perhaps as hunger and its allies coerce—enlisted for three years, new soldiers drawing, in theory, six “Mex” dollars a month, old ones, for what our own call a “second hitch,” eight. But in practice none of those with whom we spoke had ever been paid more than three such dollars during a single “moon,” at least, as they put it, “in time of peace.” It would be no great wonder if some of those off now on a furlough to their homes with only that amount to their names should be cogitating some violent means of improving that penurious condition of affairs.

One might become an officer within a year, they said, if one proved to be a good soldier, particularly if one were a friend of some friend of the general, or had money to scatter in the right quarter. Company officers seemed to receive about as much as our enlisted men do, with the privilege of buying their own food and clothing; but there are, as every one who has passed a bit of time in present-day China knows, other means by which they, and to a large extent the soldiers under them, often appreciably increase their official stipend.

Chinese farming methods include a stone roller, drawn by man, boy, or beast, to break up the clods of dry earth

Disarmament, I reflected, is like those long and complicated cures for virulent diseases that are so easily caught. When what we somewhat mistakenly call the most civilized nations of the world set the example of war, of mighty military forces, the infection cannot but spread to what seem to us the more backward races. Like a pebble tossed into a pool, the bright idea is taken up by race after race, country after province, until by the time the advanced nations are on the verge of bankruptcy and ready to quit for a while they must keep the thing up as a protection against the peoples of color and of strange faiths who have been stirred up by their example. In China there is an added complication. Soldiery, and banditry, too, are there largely a phase of the problem of unemployment. If China has the four hundred million inhabitants popularly attributed to her, any one who has traveled even in the less crowded northern provinces has seen that at least a hundred million of them must be perpetually hovering about the brink of starvation. An ambitious politician, or a general who refuses to lose his perquisites as such, himself imbued with the centuries-old dread of becoming one of the hungry, inarticulate masses, gathers about him all the soldiers he can recruit and find any means of keeping in his service. Most of these are simple, boyish fellows gleaned from the farms and villages before they have really taken root in the complicated society and industry of China. If they are discharged, if they are not paid, if the overthrow of their leader makes them fugitives, there is nothing much left for them to do but to turn bandits. Many have served alternately as soldiers and as brigands for years; many know no other trade, and, though they did, it is little less difficult to find an opening in the crowded, ill paid ranks of China’s workmen than to perform the venerable trick of passing a camel through the eye of a needle.

Thus the same men who, as soldiers, force helpless villagers to make up their arrears in pay, find it no great leap, as bandits, to the torturing of rich Chinese who fall into their hands, until their victims have subscribed enough to drive starvation once more into the background. Raids on towns, invitations to chambers of commerce to save the community from the torch and looting by raising so many thousands of dollars, are the order of the day in many parts of China; and testimony is almost unanimous that most Chinese soldiers are as bad as the bandits. In fact, there are towns which pay the tu-fei fixed sums not only for promising not to loot them but to keep the soldiers from doing so. After all, is there any great difference between the flock of generals or provincial dictators misgoverning various regions of China as they see fit, by the use of their private armies, and another leader, who in his day may also have been a general and quite possibly will be one again, whose followers are referred to as bandits rather than soldiers? Often the only real distinction is that the one is strong enough to force recognition from the so-called Central Government, and the other is not, though they may be equally scornful of its commands and desires. How faint is the line of demarcation, even in the minds of the most successful Chinese generals, is shown by the opinion of almost all of them that when a force is defeated in one of the skirmishes of China’s almost constant, if unacknowledged, civil war the victor should take over most of the defeated troops and save himself the job of having later to clear them out of his region as bandits.

China, it is evident, will never get rid of her bandits until she has industries to absorb them, and her excess soldiers also. The latter are commonly “disbanded” merely by some other force coming into the territory they have been holding and driving them out, instead of surrounding and disarming them. Thus when they are forced to turn to brigandage they retain guns, ammunition, and uniforms; and they are helped by every one, including the soldiers. Understandings grow up between the two forces; the bandits bury money exacted from their victims and pass the word on to the soldiers, who pretend to have a great battle against the outlaws, but really dig up the money and bury ammunition in place of it. One can scarcely expect Chinese coolies to risk their lives, or even their skins, merely because they have been enlisted as soldiers. Moreover, banditry has been more or less continuous in China for many centuries. It is a rare play on the Chinese stage in which there is not some reference to the danger of falling into the hands of bandits; brigand chiefs are the heroes of many an old tale, just as they are in the popular legends of Spain; more than one dynasty was founded by some powerful outlaw who outfought his rivals. With industries to absorb the rank and file, who can say how many of the generals and chieftains themselves would not find a better field for their abilities, and a better way to free themselves from the dread of falling below the hunger line, as “captains of industry”?

I overtook the major at the headquarters of Wu Pei-fu, with whom he had been an observer during his struggle against the lord of Manchuria a few months before. It took an hour by rickshaw to reach the place from the station, along the most atrocious caricatures of roads I had yet seen, even in China. The route lay through the walled town of Honanfu, better known to history as Loyang. Kuang Wu Ti made Loyang his capital shortly before the Christian era, when rebels drove him out of its predecessor, Changan, in what is to-day Shansi. It is a neglected part of China that has not been the capital at one time or another. This one was still the real seat of power not only of Honan Province but of a large portion of the putative republic. Inconsistently it was more miserably unkempt, more overrun with visible human misery, than any Chinese city I had yet come across, possibly because it was thus far the most southerly. Dust and the beggars squatting and rolling in it were all but indistinguishable until the latter were cringing almost under the runner’s feet, beggars as covered with filth as any in India, exhibiting great open sores, men so diseased that they spent their unoccupied moments in picking themselves to pieces.

We came at length through clouds of swirling dust to a score of great modern barracks, housing the division with which its now powerful commander has served since his lieutenant days. A formidable series of sentries and functionaries admitted me gradually through a massive gate, across a much flower-bedecked courtyard, through a voluminous anteroom, and finally into the official waiting-room. Three foreigners, who happened all to be Americans, and a baker’s dozen of Chinese were waiting. The major and a politically-minded youth temporarily released from Harvard, who was to accompany us on the outward journey, had just returned from the manoeuvers at which the general spends his days on horseback, riding off daily at seven and returning at five, without taking food during that time. But many of the Chinese had been in the waiting-room since morning; indeed, it would have been easy to suspect that callers sometimes have the privilege of waiting overnight, for in the four corners stood as many large beds, canopied, but wooden-floored in the hard Chinese style. A long table occupied the center of the room; several more or less easy-chairs leaned against the wall. Nothing is more discourteous in China than to fail to keep a caller supplied with tea, and several orderlies, taking the leaves out of a familiar tin can in a corner behind a bed and transferring them to the pot in hands that showed no visible signs of recent soaping, kept the little handleless cup before each of us constantly filled and steaming.

Toward sunset there was a stir among the retainers about the anteroom and court yard, half-whispers of “Ta-ren lai-la” (the great man has come) from the Chinese visitors, and a few moments later we foreigners were asked to lead the way across another flowery court to a somewhat more sumptuous apartment. A young man in a gown of beautifully figured gray silk, of handsome and strikingly alert features, and speaking almost perfect English, had taken charge of details with the air of an accomplished, yet exceedingly cautious, master of ceremony. At least a score of persons drifted in, all Chinese except the four of us, but from all points of the compass,—politicians down from Peking for a conference, or looking for a chance to get there; correspondents of half a dozen native papers and foreign news services, some widely traveled and speaking English or French fluently; one or two from far southern China who could only converse with their fellow-countrymen through an interpreter or a mutually familiar foreign tongue; and a scattering of men of purely Chinese manners to whom a polyglot gathering was evidently a new experience. The assemblage suggested a king’s levÉe, with the added touch of costumes ranging all the way from the entirely Occidental to the very Oriental.

While we chatted, Wu Pei Fu slipped in among us almost unnoticed—for an instant,—until the silence of respect of the Chinese for any one who has reached power fell with a suddenness that was startling. The general had laid off his uncomfortable uniform and leather footwear, and was dressed in the long silken gown and cloth shoes of his native land. Small almost to the point of being tiny, he had undoubtedly “personality”; there was something about his vivacious manner and quite evident mental alertness which quickly set him above many of the larger and more stately men in the room. Even the “peanut” shape of his close-cropped head, so frequent in China, seemed to be but an added touch of slenderness; the hands, ladylike yet with closely trimmed nails, were an index to his whole appearance, which might have been summed up in the words “dapper yet strong.” His face was unusually vivid for a Chinese of his type, perhaps because he spends so much time out in the sun, particularly because of the extraordinary brilliance of his eyes, which fairly radiated during the frequent smiles that disclosed a small fortune in gold. Nothing, unless it was the rather stringy black mustache that fell untrimmed over the corners of a firm and slightly sensuous mouth, resembled in the least the oily enigmatical Chinese of our popular fiction. Though we knew him to be fifty, he could more easily have passed for thirty-five, and he spoke with what even I could recognize as the rather slovenly Shantung accent.

At a slight wave of his hand the gathering sat down at two large round tables set for a Chinese meal, the general apologizing to us foreigners for not placing us at his table, with the explanation that he had serious business to talk over with other visitors, evidently the politicians down from Peking. Politics, say those who know Wu as well as an Occidental can know a Chinese, partly bore and partly perplex him; he feels wholly at home only in military matters, but the plane to which his success as a general has raised him makes escape from political affairs impossible. They may be right, or they may never have plumbed below the surface of an unquestionably clever Oriental. The meal progressed like any informal Chinese dinner. Flocks of servants in and out of uniform brought bowl after bowl of the favorite foods of China, from which we fished with our carved ivory chop-sticks in competition with the rest of the circle. As one of the favorite sports of Japanese and Russians, as well as of the Chinese, waxed stronger and left us from the West completely outdistanced, even the staid gentlemen from rural parts, quite evidently unaccustomed to “outside barbarians,” mellowed and grew chatty, in an improvised language made up of gestures, monosyllables, and occasional appeals to the correspondents who spoke English or French. That sport is known in China as gam-bay, and consists of nothing more than tossing off at a gulp, whenever the head of the table gives the signal for a toast, the little porcelain cupful of samshu, sake, or vodka, as the case may be, which servants constantly replenish, then showing the empty inverted cup to one’s fellow-guests about the table. It may be a simple little pastime for those whose gullet has been galvanized by suitable training. But, for a simple person who has never outgrown in some matters a rather puritanical boyhood, it is apt quickly to result in embarrassment at the impossibility of proving enjoyment of hospitality in a way that will be fully understood. From time to time, of course, wet hot towels were passed to the guests, and when appetites flagged at last there came the bowls of lukewarm water in which the Chinese all too audibly rinse their mouths after eating. Our declining both these forms of ablution caused more or less wonder among the swarming servants and orderlies, according to their previous acquaintance with Westerners. Low as most prices are in China, this presumably daily hospitality to his flocks of visitors must make an impression on the never too plentiful funds of any Chinese general in these penurious days. But nothing is so dear to the Chinese heart as food, nothing rated really genuine without a feast attached; and to fail in the first rule of deportment would be a proof of waning fortune and a serious loss of “face.”

It was out in the waiting-room again that we had anything like a personal chat with the general. His tenacious fellow-countrymen having been deftly shaken off one by one, he joined us four Americans about the long, green baize table on which so many hundred gallons of tea a year are impersonally dispensed. His manner was a mingled hint of relief at having at last reduced his callers to those who certainly could not have come to buttonhole him for political preferment, of that respectful cordiality which Chinese in high places usually show toward any and all Westerners, whatever they may really feel toward the West, and of a suggestion of expansiveness apparently due to that fondness for gam-bay-ing which his friends sometimes fear may eventually be his undoing. Through his polished and cautious young interpreter he explained that he had come to us last that he might give us more time and attention, and from this auspicious beginning the conversation ran on through the fixed cycle of Chinese courtesies, we assuring him that we had come expressly to pay him our respects, he replying something to the effect that America has always been China’s greatest and most sincere friend, and so on for many rounds. But there was never a moment in which it was not evident that the general took all this buncombe and froth no more seriously than we; he was not only “democratic” in the way that has become so widely the fashion of late years, but he was plainly supplied with a reasonable fund of common sense, even though it might have Oriental trimmings. Wu Pei Fu is a man of larger background than many of those who have forced their way to the front in modern China, being what corresponds there to a bachelor of arts, as well as a military graduate with a long practical experience in military service. But the powers of evasion inborn in all Chinese do not seem to have suffered seriously from these rude contacts. Though we chatted for some time, nothing really worth recalling issued from the general’s lips, parted through it all by a toothpick, except the astonishing statement that there will be no more civil war in China and that the country will probably be unified within three years, after which he expects to be sent to the United States as an official representative. It may easily be that he considered these remarks mere after-dinner chat and expected us to take them as such. As we bumped back to our lodgings on the other side of the walled city in an asthmatic Ford which the general insisted on furnishing us, I regretted that some of us had not had the courage to ask some direct questions on the subject which just then could not but have troubled his dreams.

Briefly, banditry had about reached its pinnacle in this very province where the super-Tuchun held forth—under his very nose, so to speak. Two nights before, a large force of outlaws had entered the walled city of Honanfu, barely two miles from the great barracks housing his division, and, after warning the four thousand soldiers in town not to attempt resistance, had killed one of the principal merchants, evidently because he had refused to pay them tribute, and then had thoroughly looted his establishment and calmly returned to their rendezvous. On the very day of our visit the Protestant missionaries living and working in a great compound outside the walls had received unofficial, indirect word from Wu that they must thenceforth live within the walled town, as he could not otherwise guarantee their safety.

But these were local matters. What was threatening the general with complete loss of “face,” throughout China and even abroad, was the kidnapping of foreigners from his very region of the country. The bandits seemed to show somewhat of a preference for missionaries, perhaps because they were most available, possibly, as one of them assured his worried friends, because the Lord was purposely offering the apostles this splendid opportunity to convert the wicked. There was no robbery involved, no demand for a money ransom, no more hardships for the captives than were naturally unavoidable in the circumstances. They were allowed to communicate frankly with their friends at frequent intervals; they were made as comfortable as the circumstances of being dragged from hiding-place to hiding-place permitted, though this did not spare them the acquisition of such ills as dysentery and pneumonia during their forced wanderings. The bandits presented one demand and one only,—that Wu Pei-fu, of the Central Government, should enlist them as a part of the army and give them a section of the country to garrison, and to tax! In other words, foreigners whom duty or pleasure took into the interior of China were to be made the pawns in a local political quarrel in which they had neither part nor interest. With all the grievances that exist between different factions in the troubled republic, there would be ample opportunity for every Occidental venturing beyond the sea-coast to get an intimate acquaintance with bandits and their lairs, particularly if this clever little scheme succeeded and won imitators.

There were strong suspicions that high officers of the Honan armies, if not Wu Pei-fu himself, were winking at the bandits and their activities, either because these paid in a share of their loot or for other reasons too intricate for the simple Western mind to follow. But this impression, while justly taking the super-Tuchun to task for not adopting a vigorous policy against the bandits, for using his influence to coerce Peking while failing lamentably to rule that portion of the country within gunshot of his barracks’ door, it did not, generally for lack of personal knowledge, take due account of the territory in which the brigands were operating. In the pell-mell, tumbled mountains of western Honan they might circle in and out while a whole modern army rarely caught a glimpse of them. Bombing airplanes might be an effective argument, but Chinese armies are poorly supplied with such modern luxuries, and there was the safety of the foreign captives to be considered. In other words, the bandits held the best hand, and about all even a virtual dictator to the Central Government could do was to enter into negotiations with them as if they were a legal and responsible opposing faction.

This, at last, is precisely what Wu did. Though it was not until weeks after our visit to his headquarters, the loss of “face” involved when nearly a dozen foreigners of half as many nationalities, including women and children, had been carried off in his own province, added to slow but moderately stern and concerted measures by the legations involved, not merely toward the fictional Central Government but against Wu Pei-fu himself, forced him at last into effective action. One of the main troubles is that Wu and all his ilk, thanks largely to the supineness of foreign governments which should impress the opposite point of view upon the hit-or-miss rulers of present-day China, have on hand a bigger game, too often of a personal nature, than the rescuing of a few foreigners serving the brigands as pawns in their own little schemes. A loud and certain voice from abroad, as was proved in this case, would probably greatly reduce banditry even in Honan, the centuries-old home of outlawry, and certainly would make the carrying off of innocent foreigners as hostages a less simple and commonplace matter. Government, however, even when it is not ludicrously misinformed on the simplest phases of the situation in China, seems to be much more interested in issuing ten-dollar passports and collecting income taxes from its nationals abroad than of lending them the protection these should involve.

In the Protestant mission compound of Honanfu the missionaries had tied up this thief to stew in the sun for a few days, rather than turn him over to the authorities, who would have lopped off his head