The difficulties of the laundry—A friend in need—A strange picnic party—The authority of the parent—Travelling in a mule litter—Rain—A frequented highway—Yellow oiled paper—Restricted quarters—Dodging the smoke—“What a lot you eat!”—Charm of the river—Modest Chinamen—The best-beloved grandchild—The gorges of the Lanho—The Wall again—Effect of rain on the Chinaman—The captain's cash-box—A gentleman of Babylon—Lanchou.

And now it was time to bid farewell to my kind hosts and start back to Peking. Thank goodness it was going to be fairly easy. Instead of the abominable cart I was going to float down the River Lan in a wupan, a long, narrow, flat-bottomed boat.

First I sent my servant with my card to the Tartar General to thank him for all his kindness. This brought Mr Wu down again with the General's card at the most awkward hour of course, in the middle of tiffin, and Mr Wu, much to my surprise, was dignified and even stately in full Chinese dress. He was all grey and black. His petticoat or coat or whatever it is called was down to his ankles and was of silk, he wore a little sleeveless jacket, and his trousers were tied in with neat black bands at his neat little ankles. So nice did he look, such a contrast to the commonplace little man I had seen before, that I felt obliged to admire him openly. Besides, I am told that is quite in accordance with Chinese good manners.

He received my compliments with a smile, and then explained the reason of the change.

“Must send shirt, collar, Tientsin, be washed. I very poor man, no more got.”

And Tientsin was three or four days by river, sometimes much more, as well as five hours by train! I felt he had indeed done me an honour when he had used up his available stock of linen in my entertaining, and to think I had only admired him when he was in native dress!

Another Chinese gentleman came in that day and was introduced to me. He contented himself with Chinese dress, and he had more English, though it was of a peculiar order.

“But I hate to hear people laugh at Mr Chung's English,” said the missionary who was a man of the world. “He was a good friend to me and mine. If it hadn't been for him, I doubt if I or my wife or children would be here now.”

It was the time of the Boxer trouble, and the missionary was stationed at Pa Kou where Mr Chung had charge of the telegraph station. The missionaries grew salads in their garden, which the head of the telegraphs much appreciated, and even when he felt it wiser not to be too closely in touch with the foreigners, he still sent down a basket for a salad occasionally. One day in the bottom of the basket he put a letter. “The foreign warships are attacking the Taku Forts,” it ran, “better get away. I am keeping back the news.”

But the missionary could not get away. Up and down the town he went, but he could get no carts. All the carters raised their prices to something that was prohibitive, even though death faced them. And then came the basket again for more salads and in the bottom was another letter.

“The foreign ships have taken the Taku Forts,” it said. “I am keeping back the news. Go away as soon as possible.”

And then the missionary spoke outright of his dilemma, and Mr Chung went to the Prefect of the town and enlisted him on their side. The carters were sent for.

“You would not go,” said the Prefect, “when this man offered you a great sum of money,” it sounded quite Biblical as he told it. “Now you will go for the ordinary charge or I will take off your heads.”

So two carts were got, and the missionary, his wife, and children, and as much of their household goods as they could take, were hustled into them, and they started off for the nearest port.

“If ever I am in a hole again I hope I travel with such women,” said the missionary; “they were as cheerful as if it was a picnic-party.”

All went well for a couple of days, and then one day, passing through a town, a man came up and addressed them, and said he was servant to some Englishmen, a couple of mining engineers, who were held up in this town, because they had heard there was an ambush laid for all foreigners a little farther down the road. And the missionaries had thought they were the last foreigners left in the country!

They promptly sought out the Englishmen, who confirmed the boy's story. It was not safe to go farther. The little party decided to stick together, and finally the missionary went to the Prefect and told him how the Prefect at Pa Kou had helped them, and suggested it would be wise to do likewise, especially as the foreigners were sure to win in the end.

The Prefect considered the matter and finally promised to help them, provided they put themselves entirely in his hands and said nothing, no matter what they heard. It seemed a desperate thing to do to put themselves entirely in the hands of their enemies, but it was the only chance, that chance or Buckley's and Buckley, says the Australian proverb, never had a chance. They agreed to the Prefect's terms; he set a guard of soldiers over them, and they travelled surrounded by them. But at first they were very doubtful whether they had been wise in trusting a man who was to all intents and purposes an open enemy.

“Where did you get them?” asked the people of the soldiers as they passed. And the soldiers detailed at length their capture.

“And what are you going to do with them?” And the soldiers always said that, by the orders of the Prefect of the town where they had been captured, they were taking them on to be delivered over to the proper authorities, who would know what to do with them, doubtless the least that could happen would be that they would have their heads taken off.

And the man who told me the story had lived through such days as that. Had seen his wife and children live through them!

But the Prefect was as good as his word, the soldiers saw them through the danger-zone to safety.

“But if it had not been for Mr Chung in the first instance———-” says the missionary, and his gratitude was in his voice.

And Mr Chung had his own troubles. He was progressive and modern, not, I think, Christian, and he had actually himself taught his daughters to read. Also he had decided not to bind their feet. And then, the pity of it—and the extraordinary deference that is paid to elders in China—there came orders from his parents in Canton—he must be a man over forty—the daughters' feet were to be bound.

I was glad indeed to have heard the story of Mr Chung before I set out on my journey.

The Lanho is seven miles, a two hours' journey by mule litter or cart from Cheng Teh Fu, and I decided to go by litter and send my things by cart, for, not only did I object to a cart, but I thought I would like to see what travelling by mule litter was like. I am perfectly satisfied now—I don't ever want to go by one again.

I had to get in at the missionary compound, because it takes four men to lift a litter on to the mules, and there was only one to attend to it. It was early in the morning, only a little after six, but all the missionaries walked about a mile of the way with me—I felt it was exceedingly kind of them, because it was the only time I ever saw men and women together outside the compound—then they bade me good-bye, and I was fairly started on my journey. I sat in my litter on a spring cushion, lent me for the cart by a Chinese gentleman, and I endeavoured to balance myself so that the litter should not—as it seemed to me to be threatening to do—turn topsy-turvy. It made me rather uncomfortable at first, because once in there is no way of getting out without lifting the litter off the mules. You may indeed slip down between it and the leading mule's hind legs, but that proceeding strikes me as decidedly risky, for a mule can kick and his temper does not seem to be improved by having the shafts of a litter on his back.

It was a cloudy morning and it threatened rain. I had only seen one day's rain since I had been in China. The scenery was wild and grand. We went along by the Jehol River, on the edge of one range of precipitous mountains, while the other, on the other side of the river, towered above us. We were going along the bottom of a valley, as is usual in this part of the world, but as the Jehol is a flowing river and takes up a good part of the bottom, we very often went along a track that was cut out of the mountain-side. The white mule in front with the jingling bells and red tassels on his collar and headstall, always preferred the very edge, so that when I looked out of the left-hand side of my litter, I looked down a depth of about thirty or forty feet, as far as I could guess, into the river-bed below. I found it better not to look. Not that it was very deep or that there was any likelihood of my going over. I am fully convinced, in spite of the objurgations showered upon him by the driver, that that white mule knew his business thoroughly. Still it made me uncomfortable to feel so helpless.

And the way was very busy indeed, even thus early in the morning. All sorts of folk were going along it, there were heavy country carts drawn by seven strong mules, they were taking grain to the river to be shipped “inside the Wall,” and the road that they followed was abominable. Every now and again they would stick in the heavy sand or ruts, or stones of the roadway—everything that should not be in a road, according to our ideas, was there—and the driver would promptly produce a spade and dig out the wheels, making the way for the next cart that passed worse than ever. Two litters passed us empty, and we met any number of donkeys laden, I cannot say with firewood, but with bundles of twigs that in any other country that I know would not be worth the gathering, much less the transport, but would be burnt as waste. And there were numberless people on foot, this was evidently a much-frequented highway, since it was busy now when it was threatening rain, for no Chinese go out in the rain if they can help it. I thoroughly sympathise, I should think twice myself before going if I had but one set of clothes and nowhere to dry them if they got wet. The hill-sides were rocky and sterile, but wherever there was a flat place, wherever there was a little pocket of fertile ground, however inaccessible it might appear, it was carefully cultivated, so was all the valley bottom along the banks of the river, and all this ground was crying out for the rain. And then presently down it came, heavy, pouring rain such as I had only seen once before in China. It drove across our pathway like a veil, all the rugged hills were softened and hidden in a grey mist, and my muleteer drew over and around me sheets of yellow oiled paper through which I peered at the surrounding scenery. I wasn't particularly anxious to get wet myself, because I did not see in an open boat how on earth I was ever to get dry again, and three or four days wet or even damp, would not have been either comfortable, or healthy.

At last we arrived at the river, a broad, swift-flowing, muddy river running along the bottom of the valley and apparently full to the brim, at least there were no banks, and needless to say, of course, there was not a particle of vegetation to beautify it. There was a crossing here very like the ferrying-place I had crossed on my journey up, and there were a row of long boats with one end of them against the bank. It was raining hard when I arrived, and the litter was lifted down from the mules, but the only thing to do was to sit still and await the arrival of Tuan and my baggage in the Peking cart.

They came at last, and the rain lifting a little Tuan set about preparing one of the boats for my reception.

I must confess I looked on with interest, because I did not quite see how I was going to spend several days with a servant and three boatmen in such cramped quarters. The worst of it was there was no getting out of it now if I did not like it, it had to be done. Though I do worry so much I always find it is about the wrong thing. I had never—and I might well have done so—thought about the difficulties of this boat journey until I stood on the banks of the river, committed to it, and beyond the range of help from any of my own colour. For one moment my heart sank. If it had been the evening I should have despaired, but with fourteen good hours of daylight before me I can always feel hopeful, especially if they are to be spent in the open air. The wupan is about thirty-seven feet long, flat bottomed, and seven feet wide in the middle, tapering of course towards the ends. In the middle V-shaped sticks hold up a ridge pole, and across this Tuan put a couple of grass mats we had bought for this purpose, then he produced some unbleached calico—and when I think of what I paid for that unbleached calico, and how poor the Chinese peasants are, I am surprised that the majority of them do not go naked—and proceeded to make of it a little tent for me right in the middle of the awning. I stood it until I discovered that the idea was he should sleep at one end and the boatmen at the other, and then I protested. What I was to be guarded from I did not know, but I made him clearly understand that one end of the boat I must have to myself. There might be a curtain across the other end of the awning, that I did not mind, but I must be free to go out without stepping on sleeping servant or boatmen. That little matter adjusted, much to his surprise, the next thing we had to think about was the stove. I wanted it so placed that when the wind blew the matting did not make a funnel that would carry the smoke directly into my face. But that is just exactly what it did do, and I've come to the conclusion there is no possible way of arranging a stove comfortably on a winding river. We tried it aft, and we tried it for'ard, and when it was aft it seemed the wind was behind, and when it was for'ard the wind was ahead, and whichever way the smoke came it was equally unpleasant, so I decided the only thing to be done was to smile and look pleasant, and be thankful that whereas I required three meals a day to sustain me in doing nothing, my boatmen who did all the work and had a stove of their own, apparently, sustained life on two. The ideal way would be to have a companion and two boats, and then the trip would be delightful. As it was I found it well worth doing.

The rain stopped that first day soon after we left the crossing-place, and from the little low boat the mountains on either side appeared to tower above us, rugged, precipitous, sterile; they were right down to the waters edge and the river wound round, and on the second day we were in the heart of the mountains, and passed through great rocky gorges. It was lonely for China, but just as I thought that no human being could possibly live in such a sterile land, I would see far up on the hills a little spot of blue, some small boy herding goats, or a little pocket of land between two great rocks, carefully tilled, and the young green crops just springing up. And then again there were little houses, neat, tidy little houses with heavy roofs, and I wondered what it must be like to be here in the mountains when the winter held them in its grip. Somehow it seemed to me far more lonely and desolate than anything I had seen on my way across country.

We always tied up for the men to eat their midday meal, and we always tied up for the night. But we wakened at the earliest glimmer of dawn. They evidently breakfasted on cold millet porridge, and I, generally, was up and dressed and had had my breakfast and forgotten all about it by five-thirty in the morning. My bed took up most of the room in my quarters, I dressed and washed on it, a bath was out of the question, and pulling aside the curtains sat on it and had my breakfast, the captain of the boat, the gentleman with the steering-oar, looking on with the greatest interest.

He spoke to Tuan evidently about my breakfast, and I asked him what he said.

“She say what a lot you eat,” said Tuan. “Not in ten days she have so much.”

And I was surprised, because I had thought my breakfast exceedingly frugal. I had watched the eggs being poached, and I ate them without butter or toast or bacon, I had a dry piece of bread, tea, of course, and some unappetising stewed pears. But by and by I was watching my captain shovelling in basinsful of millet porridge, about ten times as much as I ate, and I came to the conclusion it was the variety he was commenting on, not the amount.

They were things of delight those early mornings on the river. At first all the valley would be wrapped in a soft grey mist, with here and there the highest peaks, rugged and desolate, catching the sunlight; then gradually, gradually, the sun came down the valley and the mists melted before his rays, lingering here and there in the hollows, soft and grey and elusive, till at last the sunlight touched the water and gave this muddy water of the river a golden tint, and all things rejoiced in the new-born day. The little blue kingfishers preened themselves, the blue-grey cranes with white necks and black points that the Chinese call “long necks” sailed with outspread wings slowly across the water, and the sunlight on the square sails of the upcoming boats made them gleam snow white. For there was much traffic on the river. Desolate as the country round was, the river was busy. The boats that were going down stream were rowed, and those that were coming up, when the wind was with them, put out great square sails, and when it was against them were towed by four men. They fastened the towing rope to the mast, stripped themselves, and slipping a loop over their heads fixed it round their chests and pulled by straining against a board that was fast in the loop. The current was strong, and it must have been hard work judging by the way they strained on the rope. The missionaries were afraid I would be shocked at the sight of so many naked men, but it was the other way round, my presence, apparently the only woman on the river, created great consternation, for the Chinaman is a modest man. Badly I wanted to get a photograph of those straining men, for never have I seen the Chinese to greater advantage. In their shabby blue cotton they look commonplace and of the slums, you feel they are unwashed, but these suggest splendid specimens of brawny manhood. They don't need to be washed. However, as we approached, boatmen and servant all raised their voices in a loud warning singsong. What they said, I do not know, but it must have been something like: “Oh brothers, put on your clothes. We have a bothering foreign woman on board.” The result would be a wild scramble and everybody would be getting into dirty blue garments, only some unfortunate, who was steering in a difficult part or had hold of a rope that could not be dropped was left helpless, and he crouched down or hid behind a more lucky companion. If there had been anybody with whom to laugh I would have laughed many a time when we met or passed boats on the Lanho. But I never got a really good photograph of those towing men. My men evidently felt it would be taking them at a disadvantage, and the production of my camera was quite sufficient to send us off into mid stream, as far away from the towing boat as possible.

Occasionally the hills receded just a little and left a small stretch of flat country where there were always exceedingly neat-looking huts. There were the neatest bundles of sticks stacked all round them, just twigs, and we landed once to buy some, for the men cooked entirely with them, and my little stove needed them to start the charcoal. But oh, the people who came out of those houses were dirty. Never have I seen such unclean-looking unattractive women. One had a child in her arms with perfectly horrible-looking eyes, and I knew there was another unfortunate going to be added to the many blind of China. She ran away at the sight of me, and so did two little stark-naked boys. I tempted them with biscuits, and their grandfather or great-grandfather, he might have been, watched with the deepest interest. He and I struck up quite a friendship over the incident, smiling and laughing and nodding to one another, as much as to say, “Yes, it was natural they should be afraid, but we—we, who had seen the world—of course knew better.” Then he went away and fetched back in his arms another small shaven-headed youngster whom he patted and petted and called my attention to, as much as to say this was little Benjamin, the well-beloved, had I not a biscuit for him? Alas I had been too long away from civilisation and I had given away all I had. But when I think about it, it is always with a feeling of regret that I had not a sweet biscuit for that old Chinaman up in the mountains and his best-beloved grandson.

I saw one morning some men fishing in the shallows by a great rock, and I demanded at once that we buy a fish. They were spearing the fish and we bought a great mud-fish for five cents, for I saw the money handed over, and then the unfortunate fish with a reed through his gills was dragged through the water alongside the boat. When I came to eat a small piece of him, which I did with interest I was so tired of chicken, he was abominable, and I smiled a little ruefully when I found in the accounts he was charged at thirty-five cents! Judging by the nastiness of that fish one ought to be able to buy up the entire contents of the Lanho for such a sum. However, the boatmen ate him gladly, and I suppose if I lived on millet for breakfast, tiffin, and dinner, and any time else when I felt hungry, I might even welcome a mud-fish for a change. Their only relish appeared to be what Tuan called “sour pickle.” There was one most unappetising-looking salted turnip which lasted a long while, though every one of the crew had a bite at it.

Gorge after gorge we passed, and the rocks rising above us seemed very high, while the sun beating down upon the water in that enclosed space made it very hot in the middle of the day, and I was very glad indeed of the mat awning, though, of course, it was of necessity so low that even I, who am a short woman, could not stand up underneath, but it kept off the sun, and the air, coming through as we were rowed along, made a little breeze. There were rapids, many rapids, but they did not impress me. I couldn't even get up a thrill, sometimes indeed the boat was turned right round, but it always seemed that the worst that might happen to me would be that I should have to get out and walk, and of course get rather wet in the process. Tuan made a great fuss about them all, “must take care” but the worst one of all he was so exceedingly grave over that I felt at least we were risking our valuable lives. It was inside the wall and was called “Racing Horse Rapid” but it wasn't very bad. I have been up much worse rapids on the Volta, in West Africa, and nobody seemed to think they were anything out of the ordinary, but then the negro has not such a rooted objection to water as the Chinaman apparently has. My crew had to get wet, up to their waists sometimes, and it was a little rough on them—I remembered it in their cumshaw—that having a woman on board their modesty did not allow them to strip, and they went in with all their clothes on.

The Wall, broken for the passing of the river, is always a wonder, and here it was wonderful as ever. We stopped here for a little in order, as far as I could make out, that Tuan might get some ragged specimens of humanity to pluck a couple of chickens, being too grand a gentleman to do it himself, and for a brief space the foreshore was white with feathers, for the thrifty Chinaman, who finds a use for everything, once he has made feather dusters has no use for feathers. Feather pillows he knows not. But for once Tuan's skill in putting the work he was paid for doing, off on to other people, failed either to amuse or irritate me. I had eyes for nothing but the Wall—the Wall above all other walls still—for all it is in ruins. As we went down the river it followed along the tops of the highest hills for over a mile. Always the Wall cuts the skyline. There is never anything higher than the Wall. And here, as if this river valley must be extra well guarded, on every accessible peak was a watch-tower. They are all in ruins now, but they speak forcibly of the watch and ward that was kept here once. There was one square ruin on the highest peak. As evening fell, heavy, threatening clouds gathered and it stood out against them. As we went far down the valley it was always visible, now to the right of us, now to the left, as the river wound, and when I thought it was gone in the gathering gloom, a jagged flash of lightning, out of the black cloud behind it, illumined it again, and for the moment I forgot that it was ruined, and thought only what an excellent vantage-point those old-time builders had chosen. All the country round must see the beacon fire flaring there. And again I thought of the signals that must have gone up, “The Mongols are coming down the river. The Manchus are gathering in the hills.”

Those heavy clouds bespoke rain, and that night it came down, came down in torrents, and if there is a more uncomfortable place in which to be rained upon than a small boat I have yet to find it. Those grass mats kept off some of the rain, but they were by no means as water-tight as I should have liked. I spread my burberry over my bed, put up my umbrella, and stopped up the worst leaks with all the towels I could spare, and yet the water came in, and on the other side of my calico screen I could hear the men making a few remarks, which Tuan told me next day were because, “she no can cook dinner, no can dry clothes.” I had lent them my charcoal stove, but it was small and would only dry “littee, littee clothe” so everybody including myself got up next morning in a querulous mood, and very sorry for themselves. The others at least were earning their pay, but I wondered how I was going to make money out of it, and again I questioned the curious fate that sent me wandering uncomfortably about the world, and sometimes actually—yes actually getting enjoyment out of it.

I didn't enjoy that day, however. We went on a little and at length we stopped, all the country was veiled in soft moist grey mist, the perpetual sunshine of Northern China was gone, and Tuan and the boatman came to me. They proposed, of all the Chinese things in this world to do, to go back! Why I don't know now, for to go back meant going against the stream and towing the boat! A very much harder job than guiding it down stream, where it would go of its own weight. I have not often put my foot down in China. I have always found it best to let my servants, or those I employed, go about things their own way, but this was too much for me. I made it clearly understood that the boat belonged to me for the time being, and that back I would not go.

Tuan murmured something about some place “she get dry” and I quite agreed looking at the shivering wretches, but that place had got to be ahead, not behind us. However, go on they would not, so we pulled up against the bank and all four of them cowered over the little charcoal stove till I feared lest they would be asphyxiated with the fumes. I got in my bed, pulled my eiderdown round me, and thanked Providence I had it, a sleeping bag, and a burberry, and then as best I could I dodged the drops that came through the matting, but I knew I wasn't nearly so uncomfortable as my men. At last the rain lifted a little, and three rueful figures pulled us down to a small, a very small temple wherein they lighted a fire and cooked themselves a warm meal. By that time the rain had gone, and they were smiling and cheerful once more.

As the result of that rain the river rose three feet, the rapids were easier than ever to go over, only of course there was the risk of hitting the rocks that were now submerged, and the waters were muddier than ever. I felt as if all those mountain-sides were being washed down into the Lanho, as they probably were. All along the banks, too, the people were collected gathering—not driftwood, for there was none, but driftweed, gathering it in with rakes and dipping-in baskets, holding them out for the water to run away and using the residuum “for burn,” as Tuan put it. It was dreary, wet, grey, cold. The country grew flatter as we came down the river, the hills receded; we were in an agricultural country which was benefiting, I doubt not, by this rain, but with the mountains went the stern grandeur, and cold rain on a flat country is uninspiring. Besides breakfast before five-thirty leaves a long day before one, and the incidents were so small. I watched the captain steering and refreshing himself with a bite at a pink radish as large and as long as a parsnip, and it looked cold and uninviting. Surely I ought to be thankful that Fate had not caused me to be born a Chinese of the working classes.

The captain had a large cash-box which reposed trustfully at the end of my bed. Not that I could have got into it, for it was fastened with the sort of padlock that I should put on park gates, and I certainly couldn't have carried it away, at least not unbeknownst, for it was a cube of at least eighteen inches. It gave me the idea of great wealth, for never in my life do I expect to require a cash-box like that. If I did I should give up story writing and grow old with a quiet mind. But then I do not take my earnings in copper cash.

More and more as we went along the river was I reminded of my idea of Babylon—Babylon with the romance taken out of it, Babylon grown commonplace. At one place we stopped at, there came down to the ferry a short fat man in blue, in a large straw hat, leading a donkey. But he belonged to no age, he was Sancho Panza to the life. Again there came a gentleman mounted on a mule, his servant following slowly on a small grey donkey. He was nicely dressed in darkish petticoats, and his servant wore the usual blue. They stood on the river-bank and the servant hailed the ferry. With a little difficulty the beasts were got on board and the boat poled across. It was just a wupan like my own, decked in the middle so that the animals would not have to step down. The donkey came off as if it were all in the day's work, but the mule was obstinate, and it took the entire population of that little crossing-place, including Tuan and my boatmen, to hoist him off. The person most interested, the rider, never stirred a finger. True son of Babylon was he. “Let the slaves see to all things,” I imagine him saying. There was a little refreshment booth, and a man selling long fingers of paste, or rather fried batter. My captain handled one thoughtfully and then put it back.

“Doesn't he like it?” I asked Tuan. It seemed to me so much nicer than the pink radish.

“She like,” said Tuan, “too much monies. Very dear,” and I think I could have bought up the whole stock in trade for twenty cents, about fivepence, so the cash-box was a fraud after all.

Now the hills had receded into the dim distance there were no more rapids, and I was back on the great alluvial plain of Northern China once more. The sun came out in all his glory, there were innumerable boats, and the evening sunlight gleamed on their white sails. Many of them were full of people, with many women amongst them, and Tuan told me it was the Dragon Boat Festival.

And then, as the evening shadows were falling, we came to the port of Lanchou and my journey in a wupan was ended.