A Bright Tomorrow (11 page)

“Where is she now?” Will Stuart asked. “She went on the stage, didn't you say?”

Lylah hesitated. “Yes, with a man named James Hackett.” She started to say more, then suddenly changed her mind. “Amos is getting on in his profession. I'm proud of him.”

“So am I.” Marian rose and stretched. “Time for bed.”

At the door, she turned and smiled at her daughter. “I'm proud of
all
my children, Lylah.”

Sitting in the stern of the small boat, Amos Stuart wished he'd never even
heard
of China! He had been ill all day, his stomach rejecting even the thin rice gruel the boatman's wife offered him. “No…just leave me alone,” he muttered, which was translated instantly by a young Chinese boy he'd hired in Shanghai.

Amos lay back and tried to ignore the spasms in his stomach, thinking of what to do next. He'd gotten off the liner a week earlier and started to implement the plan he'd concocted on the ship. It was a plan based on Hearst's idea to interview the common people. Instead of going to the Embassy, he had looked up an interpreter and set out to travel the country in an attempt to discover what the small people of the massive land were like.

His guide and interpreter had been a blessing, for the youth was the product of a Methodist mission school in Shantung. He was only nineteen, but quite a scholar, especially knowledgeable about the history of China. Every night when they paused, Lee Sang Pei found lodging for them and, after their meal, lectured his American employer on the history and nature of the country.

“It is very simple, Mr. Stuart,” Lee said one night after Amos felt a little better and was able to sit up. “England wants tea…my people want opium.”

Amos had stared at the young man. “Lee, East-West relations
can't
be that simple.”

“I fear it is so,” Lee said, a gloomy light in his dark eyes. “Your people crave tea, and my country supplied that need. But the English grew alarmed at all the silver coming into China, so despite the opposition of many of your good people, opium has made up fifty percent of all British exports to my country since 1875. You must have heard of the Opium War? It was started by the English when my government confiscated twenty thousand chests of opium illegally brought into China. Many of your most courageous leaders, including William Gladstone, stated that a more unjust war was never fought, which is saying a great deal, I think.”

Amos listened as the young man explained how America had become involved. “All the European nations saw China as a rich prize to be seized. All of them got footholds in my country. And now that America has grown up and won its war with Spain, it too wishes a slice of the profits.”

“What do the people think?” Amos asked. “I mean, the working people, not the government.”

Lee hesitated, then asked, “Do you really want to know, Mr. Stuart?”

“Yes!”

Lee studied him, then called the boatman over. He spoke rapidly, and the man nodded almost violently, beginning to speak.

“My name is Liu Mok. All my ancestors have been weavers of cloth. We are proud of our work! We cheat no man, and sell at a fair price. But now that is all gone! The merchants in the cities buy cloth from the
yang
kuei-tzu!”

The man spoke at length, then Lee interpreted his words, adding,
“Yang kuei-tzu
means ‘foreign devils,' Mr. Stuart.”

“Ask him what he is going to do.”

Lee spoke, and when the man answered, he turned to face Stuart with concern and anger on his face. “He says he will become a Boxer.”

“A Boxer?”

“A secret society, sir,” Lee explained. “Secret societies are common in China. For people like this man, they provide an organization that can bring pressure on the rich and powerful. They blend with my culture, with the Chinese taste for mystery which runs through our history.”

“What do these Boxers do?”

“It is hard to explain, Mr. Stuart—” Lee hesitated. He nodded toward the boatman. “To uneducated peasants like this, the Boxers are heroes, giving battle to wicked men in high places. They are very flamboyant, thought to be spirit soldiers—immortal, heaven-sent, come to sweep the empire clean of all foreigners. The Boxers do all sorts of things to strengthen this view—cloaking themselves in vivid costumes, practicing ritualistic mumbo jumbo and making passes with their arms like professional prizefighters.”

Amos was feeling sick again and lay back. Lee sat beside him, saying nothing. The boat glided along in the water, making a gurgling sound, and Amos dozed off.

The next morning Amos felt much better. “I think I would like to find out more about the Boxers, Lee,” he said.

The young Chinese shrugged. “That will not be difficult. They are displaying their power at every opportunity.” He spoke to the boatman, then told Amos, “Tomorrow there is a demonstration by the Boxers in a valley not far from here.”

The two arrived at the village just in time to witness the ceremony. More than once, Amos was accosted by armed men, all muttering
“Yang kuei-tzu”
and brandishing their long swords. But Lee pacified them by promising that Stuart would spread the word of the Boxers' superiority and invulnerability.

A holy shrine had been erected at one end of the valley, and now a line of Boxers, red ribbons on their chests fluttering in the gentle breeze, stood to one side as if bewitched, oblivious of their surroundings. The villagers crowded together some distance away as a stocky Boxer addressed them.

Lee interpreted quietly: “Spirit Soldiers are protected by heaven. No harm can come to them.” He waved an arm. “Those you see have become
hsien
, they are immortal. They have practiced the way of
hsien
. Watch!”

Amos stared as a handful of men shouldered their rifles and cut loose with a volley. Three of the Boxers toppled over, dead or dying. The remainder were unhurt. Another volley was fired. Some of the Boxers waved their hands, as if to turn the bullets aside, and this time none fell. Now the riflemen laid aside their weapons and took swords in hand. With fierce shouts, they charged, brandishing the long knives. The peasants gasped at the ferocity of the thrusts, yet the line of Boxers never wavered or broke.

“See!” cried the stocky leader triumphantly. “Boxers are immune to steel and bullets!”

“What of those who fell?” one of the peasants inquired timidly.

“Fool! They were not real Boxers. They lacked the true faith. Perhaps they were the spies of the foreign devils,” he added, casting Amos a suspicious glance.

Lee quickly guided Amos back to the boat.

Later, when they spoke of what had happened, Lee spoke with a voice of prophecy. “You will go on to see much of China…perhaps you will speak with the Empress herself. But you will learn no more than what you have seen these past few days.”

“You think the Boxers will lead a rebellion, Lee?”

“Yes…and I will be one of the first they will kill.”

Amos stared at the young man. “Why, you're no foreigner!”

“I am a Christian. The Boxers dislike Christians most of all foreigners, though the church has done more for the poor people than anyone. But when the time comes, the Boxers will slaughter every Christian in China. Do not doubt it, Mr. Stuart.”

“Are you afraid, Lee?”

“No! If they kill my body, they will send my soul to be with my blessed Lord!”

Amos Stuart traveled thousands of miles in China, and did indeed have an interview with the Empress. But as he left the shores of China, he thought,
Lee was right! When the revolt comes, it will be the Boxers who lead it
…
and God help the poor Christians when it happens!

J
uly of the year 1899 set all records for high temperatures in New York City. The scorching sun heated the concrete so that eggs could be fried on the sidewalks, and asphalt melted into a semi-liquid black tar. Butter became a thin yellow liquid that had to be poured rather than spread with a knife. Crowds flocked to Coney Island, seeking relief, and more people slept on balconies and in back yards than in the steamy houses.

Perhaps it was the heat that caused James Hackett to explode with anger when his play ground to a halt—a total failure. That at least was one excuse, though the actor needed little to set him off. His tour with
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
had been a flop, and when he had tried in desperation to attract audiences with another play, a comedy called
The Ugly Duckling,
the result had been even worse, if possible.

Hackett was unable to face up to the fact that he had no talent whatsoever for comedy; therefore, he placed the blame for the failure of the play on the other actors and actresses in his company. Most of them were mediocre talents at best, for Hackett was stingy and paid pitifully small wages. In desperation, he had brought the show to New York and had spent every cent he had to put the play on in a small theater. The first performance had been well attended, for Hackett had some reputation. But by the end of the week, the ticket sales had trickled down to a handful, and Hackett was forced to call the play off. He had slashed out at the cast savagely, then refused to pay their salaries.

Rose had stood by helplessly, the only one of the troupe to feel guilty. She had been given a difficult role, one calling for great ability, and was simply lost. No one but James Hackett would have allowed an inexperienced actress to even attempt such a thing. Now he made it plain that much of the debacle was her fault.

Cursing and raving in their hotel room, he threw clothing into a suitcase. “If you'd given me
anything
, the play would have made it!” he raged. “But, no, you didn't even't
try!”

“I–I did try, Jim—” Rose whispered. She stood with her back pressed against the wall, her face pale and her lips trembling. “I'm just not an actress, but I told you that.”

Hackett glared at her, his face red with anger. “Oh, so it's
my
fault, is it?” He slammed the suitcase shut viciously, then came to take her arm in his powerful hand. “I gave you every chance, but you couldn't stay away from the bottle, could you?”

“You…gave me my first drink, Jim—”

Her answer only infuriated him further, and he jerked her cruelly so that she cried out with pain. “That's my fault, too, is it? You
agreed
to take that first drink! But you couldn't handle it like a lady. Guzzling gin all day long, so drunk you couldn't remember your name, much less your lines!”

Rose closed her eyes, trying to ignore the pain in her arm. Hackett was not wrong, and the memory of how she had slipped into drinking brought her shame as it always did. He had pursued her with single-minded attention, and she had succumbed, an easy prey for the actor's wiles. She had been totally dependent on him, and when he had insisted on her learning to drink, had unwillingly allowed herself to be persuaded.

But Rose had no tolerance for liquor, and before two weeks had passed, Hackett had gotten her drunk. She had awakened in his bed with nothing but nightmarish memories of the seduction and had wept for hours. Hackett had been somewhat shamefaced about his actions, but not enough to give her up. She was beautiful and filled a role in his play, so he satisfied her with intimations that someday they would be married. No promises—he was too clever for that! But it was an old game to him, and he played it well.

As the weeks went by, Rose discovered that alcohol had the power to make her forget and began drinking secretly. Liquor was easily available, and she fell into the trap without thinking, increasing the amount of liquor, until even Hackett began to suggest that she taper off. “A little liquor will do you good, Rose,” he'd say, “but you're on your way to becoming a drunk. You've got to learn to handle your drinking.”

But she could not…and that reality brought fear into her heart. Every day she would promise herself, “Not one drink today!” But as curtain time drew near and the dread began to rise in her, she would give the drunkard's classic excuse, “Just
one
drink, and I'll be all right!” But one drink became two, and by the time the curtain went up, she was always half-drunk.

Now as she stood with her eyes closed, unable to break away from Hackett's grasp, she could not answer a word. Finally, he shoved her away, stepped back, and stared at her. The sight of her made him feel guilt…insofar as he could feel such a thing.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a billfold, stared at the thin sheaf of bills, then frowned and pulled out a few of them.

“Here's forty bucks,” he said gruffly. “Sorry it had to turn out like this. You're a sweet kid, Rosie, but I made a mistake trying to make an actress out of you.” It was as close to an apology as he would ever make, and he turned quickly and picked up his suitcase. “So long, Rose,” he said, and headed for the door.

“You can't leave me, Jim!” Rose cried. “What will I do?”

Hackett hesitated, then shook his head. “You'll find something, Rose. I'll keep my ears open. Besides, you can always get a job hustling drinks.”

Rose blinked as the door shut, then went to the bed and sat down abruptly, her knees weak. She sat there trying to think, but the fear that came blotted out all thought.

Finally she got up, went to the dresser and picked up the bottle. She started to pour the amber liquor into a glass, but suddenly put the bottle to her lips and swallowed convulsively. She coughed and gagged, hating the taste of it. Still holding the bottle, she moved to the window and stared down at the street below.

She thought of the past months with bitterness. Ever since she had given in to Hackett's lust, she had felt dirty and unclean. Now that he was gone, she felt even more soiled. What should she do? If she refused to work in a bar, the bottle factory was her only option. She was getting drunk very quickly, but the liquor didn't obliterate the memory of the hard grinding labor and the miserable existence that accompanied that job. She thought of Anna but knew she could never face her—not now, not ever again.

Then she thought of Amos, and tears stung her eyes. She took a long drink from the bottle, but his face seemed to rise before her. How many nights she had tried to sleep, and he had come floating out of the past, so clear at times—like a daguerreotype. It had been natural for her to think of him, for he had been kinder to her than any man she'd ever known. And he had loved her.

Why did I ever let him go?
The anguished question came to her lips, as it had a thousand times, but she could never find an answer. Now that it was too late, she saw clearly that she had loved Amos Stuart. She remembered the gentle touch of his lips on hers, the glow of his fine eyes as he spoke of his love for her. What more could she have wanted? Why had she been such a fool?

She sat there hating herself, bitterly reviewing the steps that had brought her to disgrace. Finally she lay down on the bed, her head swimming with the liquor, her heart dark with the knowledge of the disaster she had made of her life.

When she awakened, she saw that the sun was going down. She was sick then, as she always was, and when that was over, she stared at her face in the mirror, pale as death, her hair stringy and limp. Taking a deep breath, she got up, swayed wildly, then began to take off her gown. She washed in the cold water, did her hair as carefully as she could, then stood staring at the cosmetics she used for the play. She had never liked to paint her face, and thought that women who did so were vulgar and tawdry.

But now she reached out a trembling hand and applied the makeup liberally. When she was finished, she put on a dress Hackett had insisted on buying for her. She disliked it, for it was cut too tightly around the waist and bosom and was a shade of bright green that she knew was far too gaudy. She put on a hat, studied her reflection in the mirror, and felt her heart sink. She looked cheap, and knew that any man who saw her would think her easy. She gave a longing glance at the bottle of whiskey, but shook her head and left the room.

She walked through the lobby, stopping when the desk clerk called her name. “I was wondering…,” the clerk began with some embarrassment. “That is, will you be keeping your room, Mrs. Hackett?”

“Yes, but my name isn't Mrs. Hackett,” Rose said, looking him directly in the eye. “I'm Rose Beaumont.” She whirled and left the hotel, and went at once to Charlie's Place.

The owner, Charlie O'Steen, stared at her when she approached him, asking for work.

“Why, Rose, I don't use actors anymore,” he said, waving his hand around the room. “Costs too much. Most of my customers come to drink nowadays, not to see a show.”

“I need a job, Mr. O'Steen,” Rose said evenly, “but I'm no actress. I did work here with Eddy Sparks' company, though.”

Charlie gave her an appraising look. “Well, you're a good-looking woman, Rose. I'd like to have you work for me. Sit down and we'll talk about it.”

Rose sat down, only half listening to him. When he finished speaking, she said, “That's fine with me, Mr. O'Steen.”

“Call me Charlie.” The saloon keeper got to his feet and stuck out a beefy hand. “Come back at six, Rose.”

As Rose left his place, she was aware of having crossed an invisible line. She felt afraid, for she knew that her life would never be the same. She was realistic enough to know what being a dance hall girl meant. It was like being plunged into an alien world, where all she had loved was gone, and as she stepped outside the saloon, she knew she was lost.

The summer in New York ended so abruptly that Amos had no feeling whatsoever of autumn. It seemed to him that one day the sweltering summer heat was sucking all the energy out of him, and the next, he was stepping outside his apartment building to be met by a cold gust whipping around the corner, numbing his face and hands. “More like December than October,” he observed to the cabdriver waiting in front of the building.

Amos hurried down the street, enjoying the sharp wind, thinking of what it would be like to be out in the hills with Owen after a deer. He thought often of the Ozarks, and especially of Owen. His kid brother seldom wrote, but the letters from his mother were filled with news of all the children, and he sensed that she was concerned about Owen.
He's going to the dances and playing music with your father,
she had said, and that was enough for Amos to know she feared that this son had the same streak in him that ran in William Stuart.

Amos arrived at the
Journal
and walked quickly to his desk—a small cubicle just off the pressroom. Taking off his coat and hat, he sat down and began to write. The roar of the presses drowned out all the street noises, which was all right with Amos. When he wrote, he became oblivious to everything around him. It was not enough to speak to him, his editor had discovered. One had to grab Stuart and literally drag his mind away from the words that flowed out of him.

For two hours he wrote steadily, then with a grunt, put his pencil down and leaned back. His back ached, and he had to uncramp his fingers slowly as he read what he had written. The words pleased him, and a smile touched his lips as he thought of how Al Paxton, his editor, would scream!

Pretty strong stuff!
Amos thought, and his smile faded. He knew that Theodore Roosevelt was leading the movement to annex the Philippines. Roosevelt, who had been elected governor of New York in November by a landslide after the Spanish-American War, had struck out against those who opposed expansion, the Anti-Imperialists, with all his might. This group included men such as ex-President Cleveland, William James, Andrew Carnegie and, surprisingly enough, Mark Twain. It was their contention that the move to annex the Philippines sprang out of a lust for power, money, and glory abroad. But Roosevelt countered by proclaiming, “We are a conquering race. We must obey our blood and occupy new markets, and if necessary, new lands. In the Almighty's infinite plan, debased civilizations and decaying races must give way to the higher civilizations of the nobler and more virile types of man.”

Amos took the sheaf of papers, put on his coat and hat, then left after dropping them on his editor's desk. He left because he knew exactly what would happen.
Al will take the column up to William Randolph Hearst, who will scream and throw it into the wastebasket. He'll tell Al to fire me, and Al will beg him to give me one more chance.

It had gone that way several times, and Amos knew that he was walking on a razor's edge. Hearst was a tyrant, and more than one brash young reporter had found himself ushered out on the streets after displeasing the publisher. The possibility should have troubled Amos, but it did not—not much, at least.