A Bright Tomorrow (13 page)

“Not even started yet, Nick. We've sold the Filipinos down the river…pretended to save them from Spain, but now we're going to take their country.” He saw his hosts were shocked, and shook his head sadly. “It's going to be a nasty business. We'll win because we're stronger and have the guns, but I'm ashamed to be a part of it.”

They spoke of the war, and finally Amos asked about his old friends. He listened as they spoke of this one and that, but finally asked nervously, “What about Rose? You ever see her?” Amos didn't miss the look the two exchanged. “What's the matter?”

It was Nick who answered, though with considerable reluctance. “Well, pal, I wasn't going to tell you about her. She's…gone wrong.”

“Wrong? How?”

“She took up with an actor—fellow named Hackett. He got her started drinking and then kicked her out. She got a job at a dance hall, but didn't keep it.”

“She was such a good girl.” Anna twisted her handkerchief nervously. “It's that man's fault!”

“I dunno, Mama,” Nick said, doubt in his voice. “She didn't have to go the way she did. She could have come to us for help.” He shrugged. “I didn't know about her until she was pretty far gone. Soon as I heard, I looked her up, but she wouldn't talk to me.”

“She was ashamed, Nicky!” Anna insisted vehemently.

“I guess so…but she's on the streets now, Amos.”

Amos kept his composure, but inside he was profoundly shaken. He remembered Rose's merry eyes, her quick laughter, her innocence. Most of all, her innocence. How could a young woman go bad so quickly?

He rose to his feet, saying evenly, “I'm sorry to hear it. She had good stuff in her.”

After the good-byes were said and Amos was gone, Anna narrowed her eyes. “Nick…he's hurting, Amos is.”

“I know, Mama.” Nick's dark eyes glowed with anger, and he said, “I'd like to wring her neck! He ain't gonna get over this easy.”

“No. I think he's still loves Rose.”

“Well, he better forget her, Mama. She's a bad one now!”

All the sounds were soft, muted and indistinct, as though filtered through layers of cotton wool.

She learned to recognize one voice in particular, a strong woman's tone that came more often than the rest. The other voices came and went, but this one was always there, speaking in measured cadences. Though she couldn't understand the words, somehow she always grew peaceful when she heard that voice.

She was hot at times—so hot the very covers seemed to scorch her flesh, and she would thrash around wildly, trying to escape the heat. But strong hands held her down, and then the cool touch of water could be felt, bringing relief to her fevered flesh.

At other times, icy chills racked her body, and she shook so hard her teeth chattered. Then the voice would come—soothing and firm—like a warm blanket that drove away the cold.

Occasionally, she would sink down into a dark pit, blacker than ebony, and it was then she would cry out in fear. For in that darkness ugly, foul things picked at her with spectral fingers, trying to absorb her into their hideous shapes.

But the worst was the nightmare that came over and over. In the dream she seemed to be watching a woman who was walking along a narrow pathway over a cavernous cleft in the earth. Smoke and fire and the cries of the damned rose from the cleft, and she saw the woman about to fall over the edge. Always she would run to help her, but when she took hold of the woman and turned her around…she saw that the woman had her own face!

It was this dream that brought her out of her deep coma. She came awake, crying out with dry lips, and opened her eyes. Light was flooding in from a window, and she blinked, momentarily blinded.

“Now, then…you're out of it, dearie!”

Rose recognized the voice, for it was the same one that had meant safety and warmth. She blinked again. The woman belonging to the voice had a broad face and wore a kind smile. Rose tried to speak, but her lips were parched, and she could only croak, “Where am I?”

“Now, then, take a little water.” The woman reached over and picked up a glass, and when she put it to Rose's dry lips, said, “Don't gulp so hard…there's plenty more.”

Rose drank thirstily, then lay back on the pillow. Looking around the room, she saw nothing familiar and grew afraid. She could not remember coming here.

“My name is Maggie. Don't try to talk too much, dearie. You've been very sick, but you're going to be all right now.”

“What's…wrong with me?”

Maggie shook her head soberly, then smiled, “Well, it was pneumonia, but the Lord Jesus put his hand on you and brought you out of the valley of death.” Then she got up, saying, “Now, to get some solid food into you.”

Rose lay there as the woman left, and by the time she came back with a steaming bowl of soup, Rose was ready with her questions. “How did I get here?'

“You eat and I'll talk,” Maggie ordered, and while she spooned the soup into Rose, she gave her a quick history of what had transpired. “It was Captain Pentecost who brought you in…carried you like a baby, he did!”

“Who is he?”

Maggie laughed softly. “You'd best be thinking he's an angel, dearie, for if he hadn't brought you in, you'd not be alive, I'm thinking.” She watched as the girl finished the soup, then saw that her eyes were drooping. When they closed, it was in a natural sleep, not the fevered coma.

Getting to her feet, Maggie stretched wearily and left the room. She found Pentecost speaking with two of the officers. “She's come to, Captain.”

“She going to be all right?”

“Unless she has a setback.”

Pentecost cast a sharp look at the lassie. “You've worn yourself out, Maggie. Go get some sleep. I'll sit with her until Glenda comes in from the street service.” Maggie started to object. “That's an
order
, Maggie!” barked the captain, and she surrendered without another word, going to bed and falling asleep at once.

Pentecost went to sit beside the sleeping girl. She was, he saw, a beautiful woman…or had been before sin and disease etched their mark on her. But despite the evidence of hard living, he found it hard to believe what she had been.

He sat there, off and on, for most of the afternoon, and was about to doze off when she spoke.

“I–I'd like to get up.”

Pentecost started, then bent over her. “Why, I think you'd best wait for a little while, young lady.” When she didn't argue, he asked, “What's your name?”

“Rose. Rose Beaumont.”

“Is there anyone you'd like me to notify, Rose? Somebody who needs to know where you are…someone who'd be worried about you?”

“No,” she whispered. “Nobody is worried about me.”

When the girl turned her head to one side, Pentecost could see a single tear rolling down her cheek. He reached out and took her hand, and when she gave him a startled glance, he spoke gently. “Yes, Somebody is very worried about you, Rose.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes.” The fatherly figure bent closer, and there was love and compassion in his blue eyes. “
Jesus
loves you. He's always loved you, Rose, and now he's brought you here so that you can learn to love him, too. Will you let me tell you about him?”

Rose's heart seemed to contract at the name
Jesus
. She had heard of Jesus, but he had always seemed as remote to her as George Washington. Now, with the life only feebly pulsing in her, she seemed to hear something familiar. There was something about that name—Jesus—that drew her, and she whispered fervently, “Yes, please, tell me!”

The tall man began talking, reading from time to time from a small Bible. For a moment only, Rose felt her old reserve go up. This man was a stranger, and she had been hurt by men. Yet, somehow she knew he was different, and she lay there, listening.

He told her how he had led a wild life as a soldier. “But one day I heard that Jesus loved me…and for the first time in my life, I knew what it was to be loved,” he said. “I had a fine family, but they were not demonstrative people. I had everything a man could want, but I was miserable. Then I heard General Booth say that if I would let Jesus come into my heart and become Lord, he would bring peace, forgive all my sins, and make me fit for heaven.” The captain told how he had put his trust in Jesus that day, and from that moment, he had known peace. Finally he asked gently, “Would you like to trust Jesus, Rose?”

“He…wouldn't want me, not after what I've done!”

“Oh, yes, he's the friend of sinners,” Pentecost assured her. He spoke for a long time of God's limitless love. “Rose, I think you've been looking for love all your life, but you've been looking for it in the wrong places. Now you've found One you can trust. He'll never let you down, no matter what! He died for your sins, Rose. He wants you to be his own treasure. Will you let him come in and make you pure and ready for heaven?”

It didn't happen all at once. Rose couldn't believe what Pentecost was telling her. It was too good to be true! The time rolled on, and finally, a great longing was birthed in Rose. “If I could only start over…” she said brokenly.

“That's exactly what Jesus wants! ‘Ye must be born again' is his commandment.” Seeing that Rose was yielding, he pressed in. “Rose,” he said, “I believe God is speaking to you right now. And it's very simple, so simple even a child can understand how to do it. The Bible says, ‘Whosoever shall call upon the name of the Lord shall be saved.' Anybody can do that! The question is…
will
you do it? If I pray with you, will you call on God, asking him to save you, to forgive your sins?”

Rose felt desperation rise, along with doubts, but she managed to nod. Pentecost began a fervent prayer in her behalf. While Rose knew no prayers, she began to cry, “Oh, God, save me! I want to be different…help me in the name of Jesus!”

Maggie Flynn entered the room, groggy with sleep, but seeing the joy in Rose Beaumont's eyes, began to shout, “Glory to God! A sinner's come home! Glory to God and the Lamb forever!”

Pentecost was fighting tears, but he knew what had happened. He gripped Rose's hand, whispering, “Now, you're a handmaiden of the Lord, dear Rose. A brand-new creature.”

Rose lay there, unable to speak. She knew so little. Nothing at all about religion. But she knew one thing…something…someone had come to her, and it was like nothing she'd ever known before!

She looked up at the pair leaning over her, and tears bright as diamonds starred her eyes. “It's–it's so peaceful. For the first time in my life, I'm not afraid.” A smile came trembling to her lips, and she whispered, “Is it always going to be like this?”

Pentecost smiled. “All Christians have problems and trials, Rose, but Jesus is there now, and he will make the difference!”

Rose Beaumont had no idea what she would do, where she would go, how she would live. But her voice held a new note of confidence. “As long as Jesus is with me, I won't ever be afraid again!”

A
mos's visit to Arkansas lasted for a month before he returned to New York, expecting to be sent to the Philippines to cover the war that was shaping up there. But for three months Hearst had kept him busy with routine details, which suited Amos, for he had no desire to see the vicious war he felt was inevitable. Therefore, he was caught off guard, when Hearst called him into his office one morning in May. He reported at once and found the publisher tense and nervous.

“Stuart, forget the Philippines,” Hearst said curtly. “I'll send Yates to cover it.” Amos stared at him, and Hearst explained, “You're going to China!”

“China!”

“Yes.” The publisher began to pace the floor, his hands clasped behind him, his words tumbling out. “We're in real trouble over there—bad trouble! And nobody seems to see it, or give it a thought.”

“What's happening, Mr. Hearst?”

“You saw some of it the last time you were there, Stuart. I've been reading your reports again. I didn't pay much attention to them at the time, but your warning about the Boxers…well, I think they're going to explode.”

“What's set them off?”

Hearst frowned. “It's not any
one
thing.” He stopped pacing, took a seat behind his desk, and lit a cigar while he collected his thoughts. Expelling a cloud of bluish smoke, he began to lecture Amos as if the reporter were a large crowd in a hall, an irritating habit of the man.

“The world has suddenly discovered that China is a big market, and all the nations are fighting over the pie. England won the Opium War and got a slice. The United States got a slice at Wanghia, and France got her share. The ports were thrown open to foreigners—something new in Chinese history.”

“And that means the end of many small craftsmen,” Amos broke in, remembering the boatman he had met. “They can't compete with the factories.”

“Exactly right! So the Chinese fear what's happening. The ruler of all China is a vicious snake of a woman—the Empress Dowager, Tzu Hsi, and she hates foreigners with all her evil heart! She's made no secret out of that, publicly vowing to rid China of all of them.”

“She'd go to war?”

“No, she's got no navy and the Chinese army is weak and corrupt. But there's one strong force in China—the Boxers! That very name means ‘Fists of Righteousness'.”

“A rough bunch, sir.”

“So you say in your reports. Well, the Empress has placed the blame for China's woes not on the rotten ruling class, but on foreign invaders—and she's going to use the Boxers to get rid of them, or so I suspect.”

Amos had learned that William Randolph Hearst had a peculiar genius for smelling out potential news stories. It was this quality that had made him the foremost publisher in America, and Amos asked, “What do you want me to do, Mr. Hearst?”

“Get to China as fast as you can!” Hearst snapped. “The situation there is explosive, and I want the
Journal
to have a man on the spot. I've booked passage for you on the
Cora Adams.
She sails day after tomorrow.” Hearst hesitated, then got up from his desk and came to stand beside Amos. There was something uncharacteristically awkward in the way he put his hand on the younger man's shoulder. “Amos, be careful. I wouldn't want to lose you.” Then, as if he had done something shameful, he whirled on his heel and returned to his desk. “Now, get out of here! I've got work to do!”

Amos disembarked from the
Cora Adams
early on the morning of May 28, 1900. Almost as soon as his feet touched Chinese soil, Amos Stuart was aware of a decided difference in the country. On his previous visit, he had been an object of curiosity, most of it friendly. But as soon as he stepped off the gangplank, he heard the hissing taunts of the Chinese who loitered on the dock:
“Yang kuei-tzu!”

They're calling me a foreign devil,
Amos thought. He stared at them, and whereas the lower classes would have dropped their gaze, they now glared at him, eyes blazing with hatred.
I'd hate to be caught out alone on a dark street with these fellows!

He ducked his head, then made his way to the street, where he hired a rickshaw to take him to the railroad station. Though the rickshaw coolie said nothing, Amos sensed the same distaste manifested by the men on the dock. And on the way to the railroad station, his approach was heralded by jeers and catcalls coming from the people in the crowded streets.
Things are worse than Hearst or anyone else suspects,
he mused.

Amos took the train from Shanghai and for two days and nights was bounced over the irregular tracks en route to Taku, a city which guarded the upper mouth of the North River. Once again, he experienced the same animosity from the train crew and the passengers that he had encountered earlier. Being the only white man on the train, he felt isolated and at times even afraid. Only the conductor spoke some sort of pidgin English, but when Amos tried to learn why the anti-American feeling was so great, the man clammed up, refusing to speak.

Amos was exhausted when the train finally pulled into the station at Taku but hurried to make contact with the naval force lying off the Taku Bar. There he found seventeen men-of-war, situated twelve miles offshore. It was this force the Empress feared, for she had nothing to match it.

The shore was swarming with activity, and with difficulty Amos located Admiral Seymour, the officer in charge of the fleet. Seymour was a short, spare man with pale blue eyes and a crusty manner. He was not overly happy to see Amos at first, but when he discovered that Hearst himself had sent the reporter, he thawed slightly. “Perhaps Hearst can draw some attention to this mess!” he snapped. “Lord knows we're in trouble!”

“What's happening, Admiral?” Amos asked.

“It's a sorry business,” Seymour said in a clipped manner. “The Boxers are out of control, killing and looting all over the country—mostly missionaries, but any white person will do. They butchered a young English clergyman named S.M. Brooks in Shantung Province last December. It gets worse every day.” He gestured toward the soldiers and marines who were being bullied into order by non-coms and said, “We got a message from the Embassy at Peking last night that they're expecting an attack, so we're getting a rescue force together.”

“But…if the Chinese attack the Embassy, it'll mean war!”

“It should, but the Empress is a crafty old woman,” Seymour said. “She's watched this trouble build up for some time, and she wants to get the foreigners out. So she's come out in favor of the Boxers. That bunch has already brought North China to a state of anarchy. The armies of the Empress are badly equipped and poorly trained, so she's gotten the Boxers to do her dirty work. It's a devilish thing, Mr. Stuart! Straight out of hell! And Tzu Hsi has joined in with the dark powers of the spirit world!”

“But our country will never stand for an armed attack on our people!”

“It won't be the official army who attacks, it'll be the Boxers. You can't declare war on bandits…not if they're in another country.” Admiral Seymour grew impatient. “The company is moving out. Do you want to come along? May be dangerous.”

“Count me in,” Amos agreed at once.

The force that left Taku was not large. Amos joined the officers and men who were packed into the small boats that would take them to Tientsin. He found himself seated with a group of United States marines, and got acquainted with Sergeant Joe MacClintock and a young private named Willie Summers.

MacClintock was a veteran marine, and Amos soon learned that he was worried about his men. “Most of them ain't never heard a shot fired,” he said confidentially to Amos. “I wish we had a few more salty old veterans.”

“You think it'll be a fight, Joe?”

“Bound to happen.”

Willie Summers listened to this and puffed out his chest. He had only one ambition in life—to be a real marine—and had left Pittsfield as soon as he was old enough. The training at Parris Island had been tough, but he had come through it well, and was thrilled when he found himself slated for sea duty on a destroyer headed for the Orient.

“You watch me, Sarge,” he piped up, a grin on his freckled face. “I'll get me a dozen of them Boxers! See if I don't!”

For some reason the young fellow reminded Amos of Faye O'Dell, and he couldn't help hoping that the lad fared better than the hapless O'Dell. While the three of them stood on the deck, the Chinese who watched from the shores of the narrow river, hurled insults.

“Beware the Fists of Harmonious Righteousness!”

“All foreigners are to be assassinated!”

“Go home, foreign devils!”

Amos ate in the officers' mess, where the younger officers pumped the Admiral for information, but Seymour only said, “We may get through to Peking without trouble. I hope so.”

Two hours later, however, the stillness was broken by rifle fire. Amos was on deck, talking with MacClintock when a loud
ka-whong!
sounded, and something struck the cabin behind him. He stared at the shoreline, but MacClintock yanked him below the rail, shouting, “Attack! Get your rifles!”

The men came bursting out of the hatches, firing blindly toward the source of the gunfire. Some of them slid over the sides into the shallow river and waded ashore. Bullets kicked up geysers of water around the crouching marines, but they returned the fire.

Finally the Boxers gave way and Admiral Seymour, who had watched the action, said to his second-in-command, “I intend to be in Peking by nightfall!”

But he was wrong. When the troops disembarked from the boats and crowded into waiting trains to make the journey to Peking, Amos kept close to the marines.

“This should be a pleasant journey,” he heard one officer say.

“Expect so,” said another. “Hope we get to see some action.”

He got his wish—and more!

The train had traveled no more than ten miles before it ran into an ambush. The marines were hustled off the train and drawn up into battle lines. MacClintock shouted, “Stuart, better get out of this!” But Amos paid no heed.

For the next few hours, the Boxers charged again and again with a ferocity such as none of the Americans had dreamed possible. There seemed to be no end to it, and in the end, the attacks went on for two days. The railroad had been ripped up in front of them, so there was no way for the force to go onward except on foot, and that was impossible.

Some dispatches from the fleet advised Seymour that the Imperial Army had joined with the Boxers. “This is no longer an isolated attack by some peasants, but a planned military campaign by national troops,” he told his officers. We'll have to go back to Tientsin and relieve the garrison there.”

“But what about the legations in Peking?” an officer demanded.

Seymour heaved a sigh. “I'm afraid they'll have to take their chances.” He calculated a minute, then said, “I think we must try to get them word that we won't be coming…at least, not until I can raise a sizable force. Send a small group of marines. Have them use that guide, Ho Sin. He can take them through the back country.”

“Dangerous work,” the lieutenant said thoughtfully. “If the Boxers catch them, they'll be butchered.”

Seymour shrugged. “We'll have to risk it.”

When Amos discovered that Sergeant MacClintock was going to Peking with a message, he volunteered. “I'll go along, Joe.”

“Your insurance paid up?”

“Sure!”

“Can you shoot?”

“I did some of that going up San Juan Hill.”

His answers satisfied the sergeant. “All right, Amos, let's go pay our little visit to Peking!”

Amos Stuart never forgot the next five days. The guide Ho Sin tried to make the small force turn back many times, for he was shattered with fear. But Sergeant MacClintock kept him under guard night and day, knowing that he would abandon them at the slightest opportunity.

“We'll travel by night,” MacClintock informed his men—only ten in all, including Willie Summers, who had practically begged to be allowed to go. “We stay with the roughest country and keep out of sight. Anyone sees us, we take them with us so they can't give no alarm.”

Amos had little hope of a successful mission, for the land was flat and filled with small villages. But they ate cold rations, made no fires, and at dawn on the second day of June, Ho Sin pointed at the shadowy outline of a city.

“Peking!” he announced, and a cheer went up from the patrol.

They hurried across the farms surrounding the city, and when they reached the streets, MacClintock shouted, “Here, now, you're marines! Look the part!” Willie Summers puffed out his chest and stepped up his gait as the small group marched into the heart of the city.

MacClintock had seen a map of the city and knew exactly where they were going. He showed the map to Amos as they made their way down the streets. “Look, Stuart, here's a map of Peking. The Captain gave it to me. We're supposed to go to the legation quarter.”

“There it is, not far from the palace.” Amos pointed to a spot on the map. “I don't think they're going to be too happy to see us…not with the bad news we've got to give them.”

“I can't help that,” the sergeant grunted. Then he looked up. “Look…a welcoming committee.”

Amos had seen the small group of men and women even before MacClintock spoke. An undersized man wearing steel-rimmed glasses led the group, and there was a smile on his rather bland face. “Welcome to Peking,” he said, his voice high-pitched and clear. “I'm Lemuel Gordon. I presume the other forces are not far behind?”

Sergeant MacClintock saw that they were all expecting good news, especially the women. Reaching into his pocket, he took out the communiqué he was carrying and handed it to Gordon. “Message from Admiral Seymour, sir.”