  Produced by Al Haines. [image] Cover art [image] Herr Schwab under Fire Brown of Moukden A Story of the Russo-Japanese War BY HERBERT STRANG AUTHOR OF "KOBO: A STORY OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR" Illustrated by William Rainey, R.I. G. P. Putnam's Sons
My dear Raymond, Last year I wove a romance about the early incidents of the great war now happily at an end; this year I have chosen its later incidents as the background for my hero's adventures. But while in "Kobo" the struggle was viewed from the Japanese stand-point, in "Brown of Moukden" (which is in no sense a sequel) you will find yourself among the Russians, looking at the other side of the shield. It is not the romancer's business to be a partisan; and we British people were at first, perhaps, a little blind to the fact that the bravery, the endurance, the heroism, have not been all on the one side. As a boy preparing for the Navy, you would have liked, I dare say, to see Jack Brown in the thick of the great naval battle at Tsushima. But I had three reasons for giving no space to that famous victory. First, Jack could not possibly have seen it. Secondly, sea-fights had a very good turn in "Kobo". Thirdly, I hope some day to give you sea-dogs a whole book to yourselves—but that, as Mr. Kipling somewhere says, will be another story. Meanwhile, if you get half as much fun in reading this book as I have had in writing it, I shall count myself very lucky indeed.
September, 1905. Contents
List of Illustrations
Maps and Plans CHAPTER I Ivan Ivanovitch Brown Scenes in Moukden—Beyond the Walls—Lieutenant Borisoff—The Cangue—Anton Sowinski—Criminal Procedure—Mr. Brown Senior—Schlagintwert's Representative—The Automatic Principle The midsummer sun had spent its force, and as it reddened towards its setting Moukden began to breathe again. The gildings on palace, temple, and pagoda shone with a ruddy glow, but the eye was no longer dazzled; garish in full sunlight, the city was now merely brilliant, the reds and greens, blues and yellows, of its house-fronts toned to a rich and charming beauty. The shops—almost every house is a shop—were open, displaying here poultry, dried fish, and articles of common use; there piles of Oriental merchandise: silks and embroideries, parasols and screens, ornaments of silver and copper, priceless porcelain and lacquered ware. Monsters with vermilioned faces grinned from the poles—hung with branches and surmounted by peacocks with spread tail—that bore the signs and legends of the merchants and shopkeepers before whose doors they were erected: all different, yet all alike in gorgeousness of colouring and fantasy of design. Two main thoroughfares traverse Moukden at right angles. Along these flowed in each direction a full tide of people, gathering up cross currents at every side street and alley. It was a picturesque throng, the light costumes showing in brilliant relief against the darker colours of the houses and the brown dust of the roadway. There were folk of many nations: Manchus, Mongols, Tartars, Greeks and Montenegrins, soldiers Chinese and Russian, here and there a European war-correspondent escaping from the boredom of his inn. Pedestrians and horsemen jostled vehicles of all descriptions. Workmen staggered along under enormous loads; labourers of both sexes trudged homewards from the fields, their implements on their shoulders. A drove of fat pigs in charge of a blue-coated swineherd scampered and squealed beneath the wheels of a Russian transport wagon. Here was a rickshaw drawn with shrill cries by its human steeds; there a rough springless two-wheeled mule-cart, painted in yellow ochre, hauled by three mules tandem, and jolting over the ruts with its load of passengers, some on the backs of the mules, some on the shafts, some packed beneath the low tilt of blue cotton. Not far behind, a trolley, pushed by perspiring coolies and carrying seven men standing in unstable equilibrium, had halted to make way for a magnificent blue sedan chair, wadded with fur and silk, borne by four stalwart servants. Through the trellised window of the chair the curious might catch a glimpse of a bespectacled mandarin, his mushroom hat decked with the button indicative of his rank. With shouts and blows a detachment of Chinese soldiers, red-jacketed infantry, carrying halberts, javelins, and sickles swathed to poles, forced a passage for his excellency through the crowd. The heavy air quivered with noise: the mingled cries of street merchants and children, the clatter of hoofs, the din of gongs at the doors of the theatres, weird strains of song accompanied by the twanging of inharmonious guitars, and, dominating all, the insistent strident squeak of a huge wheelbarrow, trundled by a grave old Chinaman, unconscious of the pain his greaseless wheels inflicted on untutored sensibilities. A Russian lady passing in a droshky grimaced and put her fingers to her ears, and a wayfarer near her smiled and addressed a word to the torturer, who looked at him aslant out of his little eyes and went on his way placid and unabashed. The pedestrian who had spoken was one by himself in all that vast throng. That he was European was shown by his garments; a western observer, however little travelled, would have known him at a glance as an English lad. His garb was light, fitting a slim, tall figure; a broad-brimmed cotton hat was slanted over his nose to keep the glowing rays from his eyes; he walked with the springy tread and free swinging gait never acquired by an Oriental. He wormed his way through the jostling crowd, passed through the bastioned gate of the lofty inner ramparts, crossed the suburbs, where the gardens were in gorgeous bloom, and, leaving the external wall of mud behind him, came into the brown, rough, dusty road, lined on both sides with booths, leading to the railway-station. Rich fields of maize and beans and millet covered the vast plain beyond, and upon the sky-line lay a range of wooded hills. By and by the walker came to the new street that had sprung up beside the railway-station since the Russian occupation: a settlement tenanted by traders—Greek, Caucasian, and Hebrew—dealing in every product of the two civilizations, eastern and western, here so incongruously in contact. Nothing that could be sold or bartered came amiss to these polyglot traders; they kept everything from champagne to sakÉ (the rice beer of Japan), from boots to smoked fish. Hurrying through this oven of odours, he passed the line of ugly brick cottages run up for the Russian officials, and arrived at the station. It was quiet at the moment; there was a pause in the stream of traffic which had for some time been steadily flowing southward. Save for the railway servants, the riflemen who guard the line, and a few officers desperately bored in their effort to kill time, the platform was deserted. The Russian lieutenant on duty accosted the new-comer. "Well, Ivan Ivanovitch, what can we do for you to-day?" "The same old thing," replied the lad slowly in Russian. "Can you send a wire to Vladivostok for my father?" "Very sorry; it is impossible to-day as it was yesterday. None but military messages are going through." "Well, I just came up on the chance." "When are you leaving? We shall miss you." "Thanks! In a few days, I hope. Father has just about settled up everything. In fact, that consignment of flour is the only thing left to trouble about now. I hope it will get through safely, but the Japanese appear to be scouting the seas pretty thoroughly. As soon as we hear from our agent at Vladivostok we shall be off." "Come and have a glass of tea in the buffet. It may be the last time." Jack Brown—known to his Russian friends as Ivan Ivanovitch, "John the son of John"—accepted the invitation. After a chat and a glass of tea from the large steaming samovar, always a conspicuous object in a Russian buffet, he left the station as the dusk was falling and a haze spread over the ground, covering up the many unlovely evidences of the Russian occupation. For variety's sake he changed his course and took a path to the left that skirted the native graveyard, intending to enter the city by one of the northern gates. A line of heavy native carts, with their long teams of mules and ponies, was slowly wending northwards; women, their hair decorated with flowers, were taking their children for an airing before the sun set and the gates were closed; a beggar stood by the roadside cleverly imitating a bird's cry by blowing through a curled-up leaf. Jack came to the great mandarin road and turned towards the city; such evening scenes were now a matter of course to him. But he was still at some distance from the outer wall when he came upon a sight which, common as it was in Moukden, he never beheld without pity and indignation. A big muscular Chinaman of some thirty to forty years was seated on the ground, his neck locked in the square wooden collar known as the cangue, an oriental variant of the old English pillory. So devised that the head and the upper part of the body are held rigid, the cangue as an instrument of punishment is worthy of Chinese ingenuity. The victim, as Jack knew, must have sat throughout the long sweltering day tortured by innumerable insects which his fixed hands were powerless to beat off. At nightfall a constable would come and release him, conveying him to the gaol attached to a yamen within the city, where he would be locked up until the morning. Then the cangue would be replaced and the criminal taken back to the same spot on the wayside. Jack hurried his step as he approached, eager to leave the unpleasant sight behind him. But on drawing nearer he was surprised to find that he knew the man,—surprised, because he was one of the last who could have been expected to fall into such a plight. The recognition was mutual; and as Jack came up, the parched lips of the victim uttered a woeful exclamation of greeting. "How came you here, Mr. Wang?" asked Jack in Chinese. The crime was indicated on the upper board of the cangue, but Jack, though he had more than a smattering of colloquial Chinese, knew almost nothing of the written language. The poor wretch could hardly articulate; but with difficulty he at length managed, in the short high-pitched monosyllables of his native tongue, to explain. He had been accused of fraud; the charge was totally without foundation; but at the trial before the magistrates witness after witness had appeared against him: it is easy to suborn evidence in a Chinese court: and he had been condemned to the cangue, a first step in the system of torture by which a prisoner, innocent or guilty, is forced to confess. To one who knew the Chinese as Jack did, there was nothing surprising in this explanation, except the fact that Wang Shih was the victim. He was a respectable man, the son of an old farmer some fifteen miles east of Moukden, and practically the owner of the farm, his father being past work. Hard-working and honest, he was the last man to be suspected of trickery or base dealing. Mr. Brown had done much business with him, and only recently had had a proof of his good faith. The Chinaman had contracted to supply him with a large quantity of fodder. A few days before the date of delivery he had been visited by a business rival of Mr. Brown's, a Pole, who had come to Moukden some four or five years before, and from small beginnings had worked up a considerable business. Almost from the first he had come into competition with Mr. Brown. The methods of the two men were diametrically opposed,—the Pole relying on bribery, the corruption of the official class with which he had to deal; the Englishman sternly resolute to lend himself to no transaction in Manchuria of which he would be ashamed at home. Anton Sowinski, as the Pole was called, offered Wang Shih the strongest inducements to break his contract with Mr. Brown; but finding his native honesty proof against temptation, he had lost his temper, abused him, and finally struck him with his whip. The Chinaman was a peaceable fellow; but beneath his stolidity slumbered the fierce temper of his race. Under the Pole's provocation and assault his self-restraint gave way. He seized Sowinski with the grip of a giant, rapped his head soundly against the fence, and then threw him bodily into the road. The contract with Mr. Brown had been duly fulfilled; and it was, to say the least, unlikely that a man who had thus kept faith to his own disadvantage should have descended to vulgar fraud. "Who was your accuser?" asked Jack. "Loo Sen." "He's a neighbour of yours, isn't he?" "Yes, and has long borne us ill-will. But it was not he really. As I left the yamen where I was tried, a friend whispered me that Loo Sen was in the pay of Sowinski." "Ah! that throws a light on it. Sowinski is having his revenge. It is a bad business, Mr. Wang." Jack knew the ways of Moukden magistrates too well to hope that the conviction and sentence could be quashed. On the contrary, if the cangue proved ineffectual in extorting a confession, there were various grades of torture that could be applied in turn. But prisoners often escaped; their friends, it is true, afterwards suffered. Wang Shih was so big and strong that he might easily have overpowered his gaoler some night when the cangue was removed; it was, perhaps, only consideration for his family that had restrained him. Jack questioned him on this point. "Yes. That is the reason. The constable—wah! I could kill him easily; but what then? I could not remain in Moukden; I am too well known. And my father would not be safe. They would behead him, and rob my family of all they possess." "Yes, I understand. I wish I could do something for you; but I see no way. My father might have done something at one time—possibly through the Russians, although they are unwilling to mix themselves up in Chinese quarrels; but in any case his influence is gone since the war began." "You can do one thing for me, sir, if you will; that is, send a message to my father. Tell him to gather all his things together and leave the district. I will never confess to a crime which I did not commit, and there will be time for him, before I am beheaded, to get away." "I will do that. I would do anything I could to help you, but——" "Here comes the constable, sir." Jack looked along the road and saw, slouching up, a typical specimen of the Chinese constable. In China the constable is universally and deservedly detested. Sheltered by the mandarins of the yamen, he preys upon the rich and oppresses the poor. The prisoner in his keeping is starved, beaten, tortured until he yields his last copper cash; if he escapes, the constable pounces upon his unhappy relatives, and their fate is the same. This man scowled fiercely upon Jack, and the latter, seeing that no good could come of remaining longer, spoke a final word of sympathy to Wang Shih, and went on amid the thinning stream of people to the city. "Well, Jack," said his father, as the lad entered the neat one-story house which served both as dwelling and office; "any news?" "None, Father. The wires are still monopolized." "That's a nuisance. You'll have to pack off to Vladivostok yourself, I'm afraid. Ten chances to one, Captain Fraser will not get through safely; still, one can never tell. I heard a rumour to-day that the Russian fleet has made a raid from Vladivostok; and if it keeps the Japanese employed, Fraser may make a safe run. You've been a long time." "Yes. I had a chat with Lieutenant Borisoff; but I was detained on the way back. What do you think? Sowinski has got Loo Sen to bring a charge against Wang Shih, and the poor fellow is in the cangue." "Whew! That's bad. It means decapitation in the end." "I suppose you can do nothing for him?" "Nothing, I fear. I'm sorry for the poor chap, especially as I'm afraid it's partly through his holding to his bargain with me. But I've no influence now, and even if I had, it would be useless to interfere in a purely Chinese matter. We could never prove that Sowinski had a hand in it." Mr. Brown reflected for some moments, Jack studying his features. "No," he said at last, "there's absolutely nothing we can do. This only proves that I am right in winding things up and cutting sticks. That fellow Sowinski is a blackguard; if I stayed here he'd find some means of doing me an injury next." "But, Father, the Chinese are good friends of ours, and you've never been on bad terms with the Russians." "Not till lately, it is true. But this war has brought a new set of men here, and you know perfectly well that I've offended some of them; General Bekovitch, for one, has a grudge against me. They don't understand a man who won't bribe or be bribed; I really think they believe there must be something fishy about him! However, we'll be off as soon as you get back from Vladivostok, and leave the field to Sowinski. I wish the Russians joy of him." "When shall I go to Vladivostok?" "The day after to-morrow; that gives Orloff another chance. And I've several little things still to settle up. By the way, here's a queer letter I got just now; it was brought by a Chinese runner from Newchang." He handed the letter to Jack, who read: "Respected Sir,—The undersigned does himself the honour to introduce himself to your esteemed notice, as per instructions received per American Cable Company from my principals, Messrs. Schlagintwert Co. of DÜsseldorf, namely, 'Apply assistance Brown of Moukden'. I presume from aforesaid cable my Co. may already have had relations with your esteemed Firma. My arrival in Moukden may be expected within a few days of receipt. Believe me, with high esteem and compliments,
"Postscriptum.—Also representative of the Illustrirte Vaterland u. Colonien." "Tear it up, Jack. No doubt we shall be away when he comes." "Who are Schlagintwert, Father?" "You remember those automatic couplings we tried on the Harbin section three or four years ago——" "The ones that took two men to fasten and four to release?" said Jack, laughing. "Exactly. Well, they were Schlagintwert's." At this moment the clang of a gong, followed by the thud of a drum, sounded through the streets. "They're closing the gates," said Jack. "I think I'll go to bed, Father; I'm pretty tired." "Good-night, then! I shan't be long after you. I've a little more writing to do. Send Hi Lo in with some lemonade." CHAPTER II Mr. Wang and a Constable The Flowing Tide—Backsheesh—At the Window—Hu Hang—Quis Custodiet?—Mr. Wang's Grip Mr. Brown, like many another active and enterprising Englishman, had left home as a young man and done business in many parts of the globe. He was a struggling merchant in Shanghai when Jack, his elder son, was born. Nine years later he seized a promising opening in Vladivostok, and removed thither with his family, now increased by another boy and a girl. When Jack was eleven he was sent to school in England, being shortly afterwards followed home by his mother, sister, and brother. Then, at the age of fifteen, he was recalled by his father, who wished for his assistance in a new business he was starting in Moukden. Jack was nothing loth; he had a great admiration for his father, and an adventurous spirit of his own. He had done fairly well at school; never a "swot", still less a "smug", he had carried off a prize or two for modern languages, and counted a prize bat and a silver cup among his trophies. Everybody liked him; he always "played the game". Mr. Brown had at first prospered exceedingly in Moukden. His business had been originally that of a produce broker; but when the Russians extended their railway and began to develop Port Arthur, he added branch after branch, and soon had many irons in the fire. He supplied the Russian authorities with innumerable things, from corn to building stones; he had large contracts with them in connection with their great engineering feat, the construction of the Trans-Siberian Railway, and in this part of his business Jack had taken a special interest, picking up thus a considerable knowledge of railway plant, locomotives, and other details. Being a man of absolute integrity, respected and trusted by the natives, Mr. Brown before long won the confidence of the officials with whom he came in contact. But he was a shrewd student of affairs as well as a man of business. He had foreseen the outbreak of war, and viewed with amazement the careless assurance of the Russian attitude towards the "yellow monkeys", deemed so insignificant. Making many friends among the Russians, he saw much to admire in them: their kindliness and abounding hospitality, their perseverance in face of obstacles, their vital faith in their country's destiny. With the Japanese his personal relations had not been so intimate; but he had watched their progress from afar with the keenness of a clear-eyed observer, and he knew that when the trial came, the Russians would find the little men of Nippon no mean foes. Events proved the accuracy of his forecast. The Russian fleet was bottled up, the Yalu crossed, Port Arthur was already beleaguered, and Stackelberg's attempt to relieve it had failed. Mr. Brown talked with some of the wounded who had been sent back from the Yalu to Moukden, and were now in hospital in a Buddhist monastery near the outer wall. They were not downcast: they spoke of being outnumbered and unprepared; when General Kuropatkin's army was complete the tide would turn, and then—— But he got them to talk of their actual experiences in battle. Some of them had been within arm's-length of their enemies in a bayonet charge; and what he learnt of the eager joy, the buoyant audacity, displayed by the Japanese, strengthened his belief that, given equal generalship, equal numbers, equal equipment, such a spirit could scarcely be matched, and was bound to lead them to victory. Prudent but not alarmist, Mr. Brown considered how the war would affect him. The Japanese were pressing northward; should Port Arthur fall, the besieging army would be able to strengthen Marshal Oyama's forces in the field. If the Russians were compelled to withdraw from Manchuria, Mr. Brown could hardly hope to save his business, and it behoved him to set his house in order. Another consideration weighed with him. The development of the railway and the imminence of war had brought new men on the scene. The Russian officers whom he knew so well were withdrawn, and replaced by men of another stamp—men who were not all so clean-handed as their predecessors. He soon became aware that he was expected to grease their palms, and his uncompromising resistance to corruption in every shape and form made him disliked. Several contracts were given over his head; he found that in many cases the new-comer, Sowinski, of whose antecedents nothing was known, was favoured at his expense; and it was clear that these circumstances, together with the general Russian distrust of England and all things English, boded ill for his business. He was turned fifty years of age, and had amassed a comfortable fortune. It appeared the part of discretion to wind up his affairs before it was too late, and return to England, where a man of his wealth and energy might find occupation for his maturer years. When he had once made up his mind, Mr. Brown wasted no time. He proceeded to put his design into effect, and now expected in a few days to leave Moukden for home. It was past midnight before he had finished sorting his papers. That done, he smoked a final cigarette at the door, then shot the bolt, turned out the lamp, and went to bed in the room next to Jack's. Jack had found it somewhat difficult to get to sleep. He could not put Wang Shih's plight from his thoughts. He had seen something of Chinese methods; there came before his mind the vision of a poor wretch he had once met on his way to execution, emaciated to a skeleton, one of his legs blackened and withered, almost fleshless, and wanting its foot, which had dropped off as the result of his being chained by the ankle to a ring in his prison wall. Such evidence of inhumanity was horrible; it made him shudder to think of Wang Shih, so good a fellow, so fine a specimen of manhood, suffering and dying thus. And he admired the Chinaman's fortitude, his loyalty to his family, his refusal to avail himself of means of escape lest his people should suffer. Could not something even yet be done for him? Jack did not wish to complicate matters; but, after all, they were on the eve of departure, and he knew his father well enough to be sure that he would not refuse to lend a helping hand if required. But puzzle as he might, he could see no way of saving both Wang Shih and his family, and the problem was still unsolved when he at length fell into a troubled sleep. Suddenly he awoke. The night was very close, and at the first moment he thought his waking was due to the heat. But then he heard a slight scratching at his left. He raised himself on his elbow to listen; he had never seen or heard mice in the house. The scratching continued; it was very close at hand. Surely at that time of night it could not be anyone scratching at the paper window? He got out of bed; it was too dark to see anything; he put his ear against the thin paper. The noise was certainly caused by the moving of a finger-nail. "Who is there?" he asked softly in Chinese. "Wang Shih, sir." "Mr. Wang! You've escaped, then. All right! I'll come to the door." On the way he went into his father's room, and touched him on the elbow. "Hey! Who's that? What's the matter, Jack?" "Wang Shih is outside, Father." "By Jove! What does he want?" "I don't know. He has evidently escaped." "Send him about his business. I can't be mixed up in this sort of thing." "You might see him, Father. He wouldn't have come unless he saw some way of getting off without harming anyone." "Well, well! Light the lamp, and let him in. I'll slip on my dressing-gown and follow you." Jack went to the door, opened it, and was confronted, not by one big form, as he expected, but by two. "Who is with you, Mr. Wang?" "Mr. Hu." "Who is Mr. Hu? Come inside both of you, and let me lock the door." The two Chinamen entered, blinking in the light of the little oil lamp Jack had lit. "Now, Mr. Wang, explain. Who is Mr. Hu?" "He is Hu Hang, the constable, sir." "The constable!" exclaimed Jack, now recognizing the low brow and shifty eyes. "Yes; I had to bring him." "What's this, what's this?" said Mr. Brown, coming from his bedroom. "What you two piecee man makee this-side?" Like almost all English merchants, he had found Chinese too much for him, and in his intercourse with the natives made use of pidgin English, the lingua franca of the Chinese coast. There was a world of humility and apology in Wang Shih's kowtow. "My lun wailo," he said. "My no wantchee catchee killum. Muchee bobbely yamen-side. Allo piecee fightey-man bimeby look-see Wang Shih; no can wailo outside that-time." His exceptional size was certainly against him. It was clear that without some disguise the man could not hope to escape from the city. "Yes, that's all very well," said Mr. Brown reflectively. Then turning suddenly to the second man: "But what this piecee man makee this-side?" "He Hu Hang; muchee bad policeyman, galaw!" "Policeyman! Yes, but what-for policeyman he come this-side too?" "Hu Hang he my policeyman. He watchee my. My hittee Hu Hang velly muchee plenty hard, hai-yah! Hu Hang plenty silly top-side; my tinkee lun wailo chop-chop. 'Stoppee, stoppee!' say Hu Hang; 'what-for you makee leavee my this-side?' Ch'hoy! My tinkee Hu Hang belongey muchee leason. Hu Hang lun wailo all-same." Mr. Brown still looked puzzled. "Don't you see, Father," broke in Jack, "Mr. Wang couldn't leave the poor wretch to bear the brunt of his escape. They would have cut his head off as sure as a gun." "Not much loss to his fellow-citizens, by the look of him," said Mr. Brown, glancing critically at the scowling, sullen countenance of the truant constable. "Still, it was uncommonly decent of Mr. Wang. We must really do what we can to get him away. What you tinkee makee, Mr. Wang?" The man turned to Jack and addressed him in Chinese with much movement of the hands and frequent glances at Hu Hang. "He says that after I left him," explained Jack, "he heard that the yamen runners were already ill-treating his people. That means, of course, that they'll be stripped of all they have. His only chance was to get away and join the Chunchuses. If he can only join Ah Lum, no mandarin will be rash enough to interfere with them. Even the Viceroy of Moukden is afraid of the brigands. Mr. Wang's only difficulty is to get out of the city." "A rather serious one. No doubt by this time they're keeping a pretty sharp look-out for him, and"—glancing at the man's huge bulk and muscular development—"he's not the kind of man to pass in a crowd." The Chinaman, though unable to follow Mr. Brown's English, had gathered the gist of what he said. He spoke again to Jack. "If only we can lend him a cart, he says, and a new tunic and pantaloons, he hasn't much doubt of being able to get through. We can surely manage that, Father." "Well, it's risky; but I can't see the man come to grief if it can be helped." That Wang Shih understood this was clear, for his face beamed, and he kowtowed with every mark of gratitude. "But what about the constable?" said Mr. Brown to Jack. "Suppose he cuts up rough?" Turning to Wang Shih, he said: "Supposey policeyman makee bobbely; what you do that-time?" Mr. Wang grinned. He took the constable by the scruff of the neck and held him half-throttled at arm's-length. "Ch'hoy! My keepee Mr. Hu allo-time long-side: he plenty muchee 'flaid, savvy my belongey plenty stlong, galaw!" He gave the gasping wretch a final shake. Mr. Brown was satisfied. The demonstration was complete. |
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