A Bright Tomorrow (14 page)

As Gordon opened the sealed envelope, a woman with a baby in her arms smiled in relief. “Your men look worn out, Sergeant. You need food and rest.” She turned to the small man and her smile faded. “What's the matter, Lemuel?”

Gordon cleared his throat and turned to face the small group who had accompanied him. “There will be a slight delay, I'm afraid. The Admiral has met more opposition than he had expected. He's taken the main force back to Tientsin until the units arrive from home.”

“But…that's impossible!” The speaker had arrived just in time to hear Gordon's statement. “I'm Sir Claude MacDonald, Sergeant, commander-in-chief here in Peking. What's the meaning of this message?” MacDonald was tall and slender, and his mustache bristled with aristocratic dignity. He cut an impressive figure, but he did not impress Sergeant Joe MacClintock.

“Sir, the Imperial Army has joined forces with the Boxers,” MacClintock said. “It's going to take a fair-sized army to cut its way here to Peking.”

“But…what are we to
do
?” Helen Gordon spoke with a touch of hysteria. “We're going to be attacked at any moment!” A cry of alarm went up from the group.

“Now, we must not give way to our fears,” Lemuel Gordon said quickly. “God hasn't forgotten us.”

“But apparently Admiral Seymour
has
,” Sir Claude snapped. Then he regained his erect bearing. “Well, then, Sergeant, I'll have your men shown to their quarters. We can use you, that's certain.”

“Sir, this is Mr. Amos Stuart,” MacClintock put in quickly, “a correspondent for the
New York Journal
.” He turned away, speaking to his men as they trooped off in the charge of one of the men.

Sir Claude stared at Amos in amazement, then laughed shortly. “Well, Mr. Stuart, you may write a story, but I'd like to know how you're going to get it out of Peking.”

“I'd like to be of any help I can, sir,” Amos said respectfully.

“Any military experience?”

“Well, I served in the war in Cuba with Roosevelt.”

“Ah? Well, we certainly can use you,” Sir Claude said with a little more warmth. “Come along, we'll find you a room.”

An hour later Amos had bathed, changed clothing, and was sitting with Gordon and Sir Claude in a rather ornate room in the American Legation. Just as they settled down to a meal, they were joined by a tall, fine-looking man of about forty.

“A colleague of yours, Stuart.” Sir Claude smiled and introduced him. “Mr. George Morrison, foreign correspondent for the
London Times
. He's also a medical doctor, strangely enough! Mr. Amos Stuart of the
New York Journal,
George.”

Morrison shook hands warmly, his keen eyes bright. “Good to see you, Stuart. Just heard about your beastly trip from Sergeant MacClintock. Rather a hair-trigger affair, wot?”

“Did you get the women, Morrison?” Sir Claude interrupted.

“Yes, Sir Claude, but it was a close thing!” Morrison shrugged as he caught Amos's look of inquiry. “I rode out a few days ago to look things over,” he explained, as calm as if he'd decided to go for a ride in Central Park. “I took the route to Fengtai, and the reports are true. Fengtai is about wiped out, and the people are running like rabbits. Nothing to be done, so I started back, but I remembered that Squiers's wife and that young woman named Polly Smith were close by, in a villa in the Western Hills overlooking Fengtai. Thought they might be trapped, so I went by and picked them up.”

“Good thing you did, George,” Lemuel Gordon said warmly, admiration on his round face. “They'd have been killed out of hand if the Boxers had gotten wind of them.”

The men ate hungrily, and then Sir Claude and Gordon excused themselves, leaving Amos and Morrison to get better acquainted.

“I know I'm your competitor, Mr. Morrison,” Amos began, “but anything you can tell me about this business will be appreciated.”

“Why, certainly! And let it be George and Amos, eh?” Morrison sat back, and the two drank tea as he filled Amos in on the situation. “You've got to understand that there are two distinct groups here in the city, and they don't get along too well. First, there are the missionaries—every brand you can imagine. The poor Chinese can't make head nor tail out of the differences between them.” Morris allowed himself a small smile before going on. “But they've done a magnificent work in China—mission schools, orphanages, hospitals, that sort of thing. Of course, the Boxers charge them with terrible practices—all lies.”

“What's the other group?”

“Oh, the diplomatic corps.” Morrison stood up and, stepping over to a wall, pointed to a map hanging there. “The Legation Quarter is here.”

Amos rose and joined him, peering at the map.

“But do you think the Boxers will attack the legations, George?”

“Afraid so.”

Amos turned to face Morrison. “Can we hold out?”

“Hard to say. There are thousands of Boxers armed to the teeth, and only a few hundred of us. Very few fighting men.” He raised one eyebrow and smiled crookedly. “Are you wishing you'd stayed in New York, Amos?”

“I find this all very stimulating,” Amos said with more confidence than he felt.

“Ah, well, we'll do what we can.” Amos heard the door open behind him, and Morrison smiled over his shoulder. “Come in and meet our newest recruit.”

Amos turned and saw the face of the young woman who had entered, just as Morrison said, “Miss Rose Beaumont, may I present Mr. Amos Stuart of the
New York Journal.
”

Amos had been hit once in the stomach with great force. It had taken his breath so completely that he could not speak, not if his life had depended on it.

This was another such moment. And as he faced Rose, he was unable even to respond to her low greeting. “Yes, Mr. Morrison. Mr. Stuart and I have met before.”

Amos stood there, staring at Rose, unable to believe his eyes. His mind went totally blank, and he could not make sense out of whatever it was Morrison was saying. He knew that his face had gone pale, and there was an emptiness, a sort of nausea in his stomach as he stared at the woman he'd loved so much.

Rose! Rose!
something cried inside him, but it was a faint thing. Finally Amos managed to nod in acknowledgment. “Yes…we've met before, Miss Beaumont and I.”

D
espair lay over the Peking legations after the message from Admiral Seymour. Streets were deserted and native help grew scarce. Word of new outrages, of destruction of foreign property, or of wanton murders heightened the tension.

The Boxers invaded the Tartar City, that section of Peking north of the legations, and by night the sky was illuminated by flames from burning sections of the city. The night wind carried the agonized cries of the Christian converts unfortunate enough to fall into the hands of the
I Ho Ch'uan
—Fists of Righteousness.

Life within the legations was increasingly strained during this waiting time of neither war nor peace. The missionaries were inundated with two thousand Roman Catholic Chinese, plus a number of Methodist converts who needed shelter. This was not done without some heated discussion, and Amos was in the meeting held in one of the large rooms after the evening meal, when the problem was brought up.

Sir Claude was opposed to accepting the refugees. “They will create a problem,” he insisted angrily. “The compound is already overcrowded, and many undesirables will no doubt be in their number. And how are we to feed and house them?”

Lemuel Gordon argued mildly that they had no choice in the matter, for to turn them away would be to condemn them to certain death. George Morrison, though not a missionary himself, supported Gordon's view. The argument swayed back and forth, and strangely enough, it was Amos who provided an answer.

He was sitting with his back to the wall, acutely conscious of Rose, across the room. Once she turned and caught him watching her, and he flushed, jerking his head away. But when both sides had given their arguments, he spoke up. “I'm not a part of the work here, Sir Claude, but there's one factor you might want to consider.”

“And what is that, may I ask?”

“I think we all believe that this legation is going to be hit by trained soldiers. Who's going to get this place ready to withstand that attack? We're so few. But with the help of these people, we could dig trenches, erect bomb shelters, make barricades, and do all the rest of the hard work that defending a fort involves. In my judgment, sir, we need
them
about as badly as they need
us
!”

It was exactly the right thing to say, and over Sir Claude's protests, the matter was settled. “Sir Claude, you're the commander-in-chief, and we'll gladly obey you in all things political,” Lemuel Gordon spoke up. “But in this case, we must do what we think is best.”

The meeting broke up, and Gordon came over at once to speak to Amos. “Come home with me, Amos. I think we need to make plans for the fortifications.”

“What about Sir Claude?”

A glint of humor sparked Gordon's eyes behind the spectacles. “Well, we'll do the work and let him take the credit.”

Amos laughed, liking the man tremendously, and accompanied him to the small house where he lived with his wife, Helen, their infant son, Charles, and Sally, their four-year-old daughter.

“I brought Mr. Stuart by so we could make some plans, dear,” Gordon explained.

Helen Gordon, a delicate woman in her mid-twenties, had not attended the meeting, but had stayed home with Charles, who was sick. “I'm glad you've come, Mr. Stuart. Sit down and I'll make some tea.” Now she turned to her husband, worry etched on her thin face. “The baby isn't doing well, Lemuel. He's still got a high fever and he won't eat.”

“We'll get Dr. Morrison in to look at him.” Gordon took the child from her, then nodded toward a chair. “Have a seat, Amos…may I call you that? And you must call us Lemuel and Helen.” He sat down in a cane rocker and began rocking the baby, who cried restlessly.

Amos relaxed, speaking easily with Lemuel while his wife made the tea. Returning with a tray, she served them and sat down to listen, sewing curtains as the men talked about fortifying the legations.

“The Boxers wouldn't really dare attack the legations, would they?” Helen asked. “I mean, Admiral Seymour will be here with an army soon.”

Amos and Gordon exchanged a brief glance, silently agreeing that it might be well to let her think the army would arrive soon, though each of them knew it would be a long, long wait.

“My dear—” Gordon began, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. He got to his feet, opened the door, and stepped back with a smile on his face. “Why, Rose, come in!” He turned to Amos. “I understand you and Miss Rose are old friends.”

Amos stood to greet her, saying evenly, “We knew each other in New York City.”

Upon seeing Amos, Rose halted abruptly, her cheeks flushed with color. “I–I didn't know you had company, Reverend Gordon—”

“Oh, come in, Rose!” Helen called out quickly. “I need a favor from you.”

“I stopped by to see if you wanted me to sit with the baby for a while.”

“No, I think the doctor needs to look at him. Would you mind finding Dr. Morrison and asking him to look in on Charlie?”

“Why, of course.”

“I'd better go with you, Rose,” Gordon said at once. “It's not safe for you to be out alone. Boxers have been seen inside the legation.”

“Oh, Lemuel, you're so tired!” Helen said, then a thought came to her. “Why don't you join us, Rose, while we visit with Amos, then he can walk you back to Dr. Morrison's quarters.”

Amos had no desire at all to spend an hour with the Gordons, especially with Rose present. Rising, he volunteered, “I'll be glad to get the doctor,” waving away Gordon's protest that they weren't through making plans. “We can do that later,” he said. “I'll look for the doctor…but if he's not in his room, I may have trouble finding him. May take awhile.”

“I'll go back with you, if I may,” Rose said suddenly, and before Amos could think of a way to prevent it, she stepped to the door and waited for him. “I'll come back and sit with Charlie tomorrow so you can rest, Helen,” she added, then left the room.

Amos had no choice but to follow her outside.

She turned and walked toward the canal that ran from Legation Street to the British legation. With the setting of the sun there was a coolness in the air, and the only lights were the yellow flames of lanterns hung along the banks of the canal. This was usually a busy thoroughfare, but since the crisis it was almost deserted after the sun went down.

Amos walked stiffly beside Rose, unable to speak. He had not spoken to her since the first moment they met. Had, in fact, gone out of his way to avoid her. The first night after their initial meeting, he had lain awake on his bed, tossing and turning for hours. He had thought that the bitterness and anger that had churned in him since Rose dropped him had gone, but he had been wrong—very wrong!

How can she face me?
he had thought as he lay on his cot.
She treated me like a dog! And how can she be here, pretending to be a missionary? Nick sure wouldn't lie to me about what she became, would he?

A dog howled somewhere in the distance, and Rose said quietly, “He won't be howling much longer. He'll be in somebody's stew.”

Just then they came to one of the small bridges that arched the canal, and she said abruptly, “Amos, I have to talk to you.” Without looking to see if he was following, she turned and walked up the wooden bridge, then leaned on the waist-high rail and stared down at the water.

Amos came to stand beside her, saying nothing, curious as to what she might have on her mind.

“It was a shock when I walked into the office and saw you, Amos,” she said quietly. She waited for him to answer, but when he did not reply, she added simply, “I wanted to turn and run away.”

“Why?” Amos asked harshly.

“Because of the shameful way I treated you, of course.” Rose was wearing a simple dark green dress, cut in the Chinese fashion. She wore her raven hair up, and her green eyes were sober as she turned to face him. “I knew that sooner or later I'd have to face you. Amos, I'm so sorry about the way I behaved. Can you ever forgive me?”

Amos was torn. His first inclination was to say, “Yes, I forgive you, Rose!” She looked so small standing there beside him, so fragile and as beautiful as ever. He remembered the times he'd spent with her—the soft kisses, the warm light in her eyes as she murmured to him.

But he had had long months to hate her, too, and now the old bitterness welled up inside him. “Why did you do it?” he demanded. “Couldn't you have waited just a few months? Was what you felt for me so weak it wouldn't even last
that
long?” He saw her flinch as the words cut deep, and he took a perverse satisfaction out of it.
Let her hurt a little!

Rose received his reprimand without reply, her lips quivering, the pain in her eyes betraying her vulnerability. When he had finished, she said, “I'm guilty of all you say, Amos. I–I know you can't believe this…but even when I was moving away from you and from all that was right, there was something in me that told me not to do it.”

As she spoke, Rose felt tears beginning to burn her eyes and willed them away, determined that Amos would not see her cry. Turning back toward the rail, she put her hands on it and stared down into the depths of the murky green water. “I suppose you know what happened to me…what I became?”

“Yes, I heard.”

Rose thought she could hear a note of sadness, of regret in his voice, but could not be sure. “What you heard was true, Amos. All of it.”

Fireflies had begun to gather on the bank of the canal. Stuart watched them as they blinked—miniature amber torches dotting the gathering darkness. The night birds were out now, sweeping and wheeling. Something in the sadness of their plaintive cry struck a responsive note in him, and he said, “It…doesn't matter now.”

“No, Amos, it doesn't matter.” Rose's voice was almost a whisper. “God has forgiven me…but I'll never marry.”

Amos blinked in surprise. “Why not, Rose?”

She bowed her head for a moment, then turned to look into his eyes. “It would be asking too much of a man to forget what…I've been.” As she spoke, it seemed to Amos that she was shutting some sort of a door, and it brought a curious lonely feeling to him.

“Some men could forget.”

“No. No man's that good.” Rose shook her head. Then she smiled. “But I'm happy, Amos. Can I tell you why?”

“Yes.”

As Rose spoke, confirming his worst suspicions, then telling how she'd been saved by a miracle, Amos knew she was telling the truth. She
was
happy! “What brought you here?” he asked when she had finished.

“Oh, one of the missionaries came through New York, preaching about the need for missionaries in China. God spoke to me…and here I am.”

Amos stared at her, unable to comprehend her joy. He waved his hand toward the city walls. “The Boxers will be hitting that wall soon. I don't think there's much chance for any of us. You came to an odd place to find happiness.”

“Happiness isn't a
place
,” Rose replied. Her lips curved in a faint smile, and she had no idea how provocative that gesture was to the man who stood there watching her. “Happiness is when everything is going right for you in the world. But when things start going wrong—” She touched her breast. “Joy in the heart makes the difference. Joy is from God, Amos. It's one of the fruits of his Spirit. And the joy he gives isn't tied to circumstances. A man or woman can lose everything—health, family, possessions, even life itself—but a believer can't lose her joy.”

“I guess I don't understand.” Amos felt uncomfortable, more uncomfortable than he had ever felt in his life. Suddenly he found himself telling Rose about Faye O'Dell, and when the story was finished, he shook his head sadly. “He died without knowing God, Rose. I…wish he hadn't!”

Rose sensed Amos's heartache. She stood there, praying for wisdom before she answered him. “We can never know about things like that, Amos. All God requires is a hungry heart and a cry. That can happen in a moment. Your friend…isn't it possible he might have cried out to God at the end?”

“Y–yes, I suppose so,” Amos faltered. It was a new thought for him, and he stood there in the darkness, his face twisted with the pain of the old memory. “I hope you're right, Rose,” he muttered, then brightened. “I'm sorry about what I said. And I'm glad you're happy, Rose.”

“Thank you, Amos.” With an impulsive gesture, she touched his hand. “You're right about our situation. If God doesn't perform a miracle, we'll all die in this place.” She was quiet and calm and lovely as she gazed steadily up at him. “I'm praying you'll find God here, Amos.” Then she turned, saying briskly, “Let's go find Dr. Morrison.”

Amos followed her off the arching bridge and alongside the canal, where the yellow lanterns made ripples of amber light in the dark water.

For the next three weeks, the missionaries and the diplomats hungered for knowledge of what was happening outside the city. They knew nothing of the struggles Seymour was having to pull an army together. They all nourished a certain optimism, none of them able to believe they would be left to fend for themselves.

Then on June 19, this optimism was shattered.

At 5:00
P.M.
scarlet envelopes were delivered to each of the foreign ministers. The notes were identical: “Within twenty-four hours, Your Excellency, accompanied by the legation guards, who must be kept under proper control, will proceed to Tientsin in order to prevent any unforeseen calamity.”

Morrison stared at the note, which had been handed to him by one of the diplomats, then showed it to Amos. “That's it, I'm afraid,” he said tonelessly. “I hope we've made our fortifications strong.”