Francis raised his head quickly, met His Lordship’s wise and affectionate gaze. The Bishop smiled.
‘You don’t imagine I’d be treating you as a boon companion if I didn’t want you to do something for me!’
‘Anything …’ Francis stumbled on the words.
There was a long pause. The Bishop’s face was gravely chiselled. ‘It’s a big thing to ask … a great change to suggest … if it is too much … you must tell me. But I think it is the very life for you.’ Again a pause. ‘Our Foreign Missions Society has at last been promised a vicariate in China. When all the formalities are completed, and you’ve had some preparation, will you go there as our first unprincipled adventurer?’
Francis remained completely still, numb with surprise. The walls seemed to crumble about him. The request was so unexpected, so tremendous, it took his breath away. To leave home, his friends, and move into a great unknown void … He could not think. But slowly, mysteriously, a strange animation filled his being. He answered haltingly: ‘Yes … I will go.’
Rusty Mac leaned over and took Francis’ hand in his. His eyes were moist and had poignant fixity. ‘I thought you would, dear boy. And I know you’ll do me credit. But you’ll get no salmon fishing there, I warn you.’
4. The China Incident
I
Early in the year 1902 a lopsided junk making dilatory passage up the endless yellow reaches of the Ta-Hwang River in the province of Chek-kow, not less than one thousand miles inland from Tientsin, bore a somewhat unusual figurehead in the shape of a medium-sized Catholic priest wearing list slippers and an already wilted topee. With his legs astride the stubby bowsprit and his breviary balanced on one knee, Francis ceased momentarily his vocal combat with the Chinese tongue, in which every syllable seemed to his exhausted larynx to have as many inflections as a chromatic scale, and let his gaze rest on the drifting brown-and-ochre landscape. Fatigued after his tenth night in the three-foot den between-decks which was his cabin, he had in the hope of a breath of air, forced himself forward into the bows through the packed welter of his fellow passengers: farm labourers, basket and leather workers from Sen-siang, bandits and fishermen, soldiers and merchants on their way to Pai-tan, squatting elbow to elbow, smoking, talking and tending their cooking pots amongst the crates of ducks, the pig-pens and the heaving net which held the solitary but fractious goat.
Although Francis had vowed not to be fastidious the sounds, sights and smells of this final yet interminable stage of his journey had tried him severely. He thanked God and Saint Andrew that tonight, short of further delay, he would at last reach Pai-tan.
Even yet he could not believe himself a part of this new fantastic world, so remote and alien, so incredibly divorced from all that he had known, or hoped to know. He felt as if his life had suddenly been bent, grotesquely, away from its natural form. He checked his sigh. Others lived to a smooth and normal pattern. He was the oddity, the misfit, the little crooked man.
It had been hard to say good-bye to those at home. Ned, mercifully, had passed away three months ago, a blessed ending to that grotesque and pitiful epilogue of life. But Polly … he hoped, he prayed that he might see Polly in the future. There was consolation in the fact that Judy had been accepted as a shorthand-typist in the Tynecastle Council offices – a post which offered security and good chances of promotion.
As if to steel himself anew he pulled from his inside pocket the final letter relating to his appointment. It was from Father Mealey, now relieved of his parish duties at St Dominic’s to devote himself exclusively to the FMS Administration.
Addressed to him at Liverpool University, where for the past twelve months he had hammered out his language course, the letter ran:
My Dear Francis,
I am overjoyed to be the bearer of glad tidings! We have just received news that Pai-tan, in the Vicariate of Chek-kow, which, as you well know, was presented to us by the AFMS in December, has now been ratified by the Congregation of Propaganda. It was decided at our meeting held at the FMS in Tynecastle tonight that nothing need delay your departure. At last, at last, I am able to speed you on your glorious mission to the Orient.
So far as I can ascertain Pai-tan is a delightful spot, some miles inland, but on a pleasant river, a thriving city specializing in the manufacture of baskets, with an abundance of cereal, meat, poultry, and tropical fruits. But the supremely important, the blessed fact is that the mission itself, while somewhat remote and for the past twelve months unfortunately without a priest, is in a highly flourishing condition. I’m sorry we have no photographs but I can assure you the layout is most satisfactory: comprising chapel, priest’s house and compound. (What an exciting sound that word ‘ compound’ has! Don’t you remember as boys when we played Indians? Forgive my enthusiasm.)
But la crème de la crème lies in our proved statistics. Enclosed you will find the annual report of the late incumbent, Father Lawler, who, a year ago, returned to San Francisco. I don’t propose to analyze this for you since you will indubitably con it over, nay, digest it in the wee small hours. Nevertheless I may stress these figures: that although established only three years ago the Pai-tan mission can boast of four hundred communicants and over one thousand baptisms, only a third of which were in articulo mortis. It is not gratifying, Francis? An example of how the dear old grace of God leavens even heathen hearts amidst pagan temple bells.
My dear fellow, I rejoice that this prize is to be yours. And I have no doubt that by your labours in the field you will materially increase the vineyard’s crop. I look forward to your first report. I feel that you have at last found your métier and that the little eccentricities of tongue and temper which have been your trouble in the past will no longer be part and parcel of your daily life. Humility, Francis, is the life blood of God’s Saints. I pray for you every night.
I will be writing you later. Meanwhile don’t neglect your outfit. Get good strong durable soutanes. Short drawers are the best and I advise a body belt. Go to Hanson & Son; they are sound people; and cousins of the organist at the Cathedral.
It is just possible I may be seeing you sooner than you imagine. My new post may make me quite a globe trotter. Wouldn’t it be grand if we met in the shady compound of Pai-tan?
Again my congratulations and with every good wish,
I remain, your devoted brother in J C.
ANSELM MEALEY
Secretary to the Foreign Missions Society,
Secretary to the Foreign Missions Society,
Diocese of Tynecastle.
Towards sundown a heightening of the commotion in the junk indicated the imminence of their arrival. As the vessel yawed round a bend into a great bight of dirty water, mobbed by a pack of sampans, Francis eagerly scanned the low tiered reaches of the town. It seemed like a great low hive, humming with sound and yellow light, fronted by the reedy mud flats with their flotsam of rafts and boats, backed distantly by mountains, pink and of a pearly translucency.
He had hoped the mission might send a boat for him but the only private wherry was for Mr Chia, merchant and wealthy resident of Pai-tan, who now emerged for the first time, silent and satin-clad, from the recesses of the junk.
This personage was about thirty-five, but of such composure he looked older, with a supple golden skin and hair so black it seemed moist. He stood with leisurely indifference while the kapong fussed around him. Though his lashes did not once flicker in the direction of the priest, Francis had the odd conviction he was being taken in minutely.
Owing to the preoccupation of the purser, some time elapsed before the new missioner secured passage for himself and his japanned tin trunk. As he stepped down to the sampan he clutched his large silk umbrella, a glorious thing covered in Chisholm tartan which Bishop MacNabb had pressed upon him as a parting gift.
His excitement rose when, nearing the bank he saw a great press of people on the landing steps. Was it a welcome from his congregation? What a splendid thought for the end of his long jou
rney! His heart began to beat almost painfully, with happy expectation. But alas, when he landed he saw he was mistaken. No one greeted him. He had to push his way through the staring yet incurious throng.
At the end of the steps, however, he stopped short. Before him, smiling happily, dressed in neat blue and bearing, as a symbol of their credentials, a brightly coloured picture of the Holy Family, were a Chinese man and woman. As he stood, the two small figures approached him, their smile deepening, overjoyed to see him, bowing and zealously blessing themselves.
Introductions began – less difficult than he had supposed. He asked warmly:
‘Who are you?’
‘We are Hosannah and Philomena Wang – your beloved catechists, Father.’
‘From the mission?’
‘Yes, yes, Father Lawler made a most excellent mission, Father.’
‘You will conduct me to the mission?’
‘By all means, let us go. But perhaps Father will honour us and come first to our humble abode.’
‘Thank you. But I am eager to reach the mission.’
‘Of course. We will go to the mission. We have bearers and a chair for Father.’
‘You are very kind, but I would prefer to walk.’
Still smiling, though less perceptibly, Hosannah turned and in a rapid unintelligible exchange, which had some semblance of an argument, dismissed the sedan chair and the string of porters which he had in tow. Two coolies remained: one shouldered the trunk, the other the umbrella, and the party set off on foot.
Even in the tortuous and dirty streets it was agreeable for Francis to stretch his legs, cramped from confinement in the junk. A quick fervour stirred his blood. Amidst the strangeness he could feel the pulse of humanity. Here were hearts to be won, souls to be saved!
He became aware of one of the Wangs, pausing, to address him.
‘There is an agreeable dwelling in the Street of the Netmakers … only five taels by the month … where Father might wish to spend the night.’
Francis looked down in amused surprise. ‘No, no, Hosannah. Onwards to the mission!’
There was a pause. Philomena coughed. Francis realized that they were standing still. Hosannah politely smiled.
‘Here, Father, is the mission.’
At first he did not fully understand.
Before them on the river bank was an acre of deserted earth, sun-scorched, gullied by the rains, encircled by a tramped-down piece of kaolin. At one end stood the remnants of a mud-brick chapel, the roof blown off, one wall collapsed, the others crumbling. Alongside lay a mass of caved-in rubble which might once have been a house. Tall feathery weeds were sprouting there. A single meagre shell remained, amidst the ruins, leaning yet still straw-roofed – the stable.
For three minutes Francis stood in a kind of stupor, then he slowly turned to the Wangs, who were close together, watching him, neat, unfathomable, similar as Siamese twins.
‘Why has this taken place?’
‘It was a beautiful mission, Father. It cost much – and we made many financial arrangements for its building. But alas, the good Father Lawler placed it near the river. And the Devil sent much wicked rain.’
‘Then where are the people of the congregation?’
‘They are wicked people without belief in the Lord of Heaven.’ The two spoke more rapidly now, helping each other, gesticulating. ‘Father must understand how much depends upon his catechists. Alas! Since the good Father Lawler has gone away we have not been paid our lawful stipend of fifteen taels each month. It has been impossible to keep these wicked people properly instructed.’
Crushed and devastated, Father Chisholm removed his gaze. This was his mission, these two his sole parishioners. The recollection of the letter within his pocket sent a sudden upsurge of passion over him. He clenched his hands, stood thinking, rigidly.
The Wangs were still talking fluently, trying to persuade him to return to the town. With an effort he rid himself of their importunities, their unctuous presence. It was, at least, a relief to be alone.
Determinedly, he carried his box into the stable. At one time a stable had been good enough for Christ. Gazing round he saw that some straw still littered the earthen floor. Though he had neither food nor water, at least he had a bed. He unpacked his blankets, began to make the place as habitable as he could. Suddenly a gong sounded. He ran out of the stable. Across the decapitated fence, outside the nearest of the temples which stippled the adjacent hill, stood an aged bonze wearing thick stockings and a quilted yellow robe, beating his metal plaque into the short unheeding twilight with measured boredom. The two priests – of Buddha and of Christ – inspected each other in silence; then the old man turned, expressionless, mounted the steps and vanished.
Night fell with the swiftness of a blow. Francis knelt down in the darkness of the devastated compound and lifted his eyes to the dawning constellations. He prayed with fierce, with terrible intensity. Dear God, you wish me to begin from nothing. This is the answer to my vanity, my stubborn human arrogance. It’s better so! I’ll work, I’ll fight for you. I’ll never give up … never … never!
Back in the stable, trying to rest, while the shrill ping of mosquitoes and the crack of flying beetles split the sweltering air, he forced himself to smile. He did not feel heroic, but a dreadful fool. Saint Teresa had likened life to a night in a hotel. This one they had sent him to was not the Ritz!
Morning came at last. He rose. Taking his chalice from its cedar box, he made an altar of his trunk and offered up his mass, kneeling on the stable floor. He felt refreshed, happy and strong. The arrival of Hosannah Wang failed to discompose him.
‘Father should have let me serve his mass. That is always included in our pay. And now – shall we find a room in the Street of the Netmakers?’
Francis reflected. Though he had stubbornly made up his mind to live here till the situation cleared, it was true that he must find a more fitting centre for his ministrations. He said: ‘Let us go there now.’
The streets were already thronged. Dogs raced between their legs, pigs were rooting for garbage in the gutter. Children followed them, jeering and shouting. Beggars wailed with importunate palms. An old man setting out his wares, in the Street of the Lanternmakers, spat sullenly across the foreign devil’s feet. Outside the yamen of justice, a peripatetic barber stood twanging his long tongs. There were many poor, many crippled and some, blinded by smallpox, who tapped their way forward with a long bamboo and a queer high whistle.
It was an upper room Wang brought him to, clumsily partitioned with paper and bamboo, but sufficient for any service he would conduct. From his small store of money he paid a month’s rent to the shopkeeper, named Hung, and began to set out his crucifix and solitary altar cloth. His lack of vestments, of altar furnishings, fretted him. Led to expect a full equipment at the ‘flourishing’ mission, he had brought little. But his standard, at least, was planted.
Wang had preceded him to the shop below and as he turned to descend he observed Hung take two of the silver taels which he had given him and pass them, with a bow, to Wang. Though he had early guessed the worth of Father Lawler’s legacy Francis was conscious of a sudden mounting of his blood. Outside, in the street, he turned quietly to Wang.
‘I regret, Hosannah, I cannot pay your stipend of fifteen taels a month.’
‘Father Lawler could pay. Why cannot the Father pay?’
‘I am poor, Hosannah. Just as poor as was my Master.’
‘How much will the Father pay?’
‘Nothing, Hosannah! Even as I am paid nothing. It is the good Lord of Heaven who will reward us!’
Wang’s smile did not falter. ‘Perhaps Hosannah and Philomena must go where they are appreciated. At Sen-siang the Methodys pay sixteen taels for highly respected catechists. But doubtless the good Father will change his mind. There is much animosity in Pai-tan. The people consider the feng shua of the city – the Laws of Wind and Order – destroyed by the intrusion of the missionary.’
/>
He waited for the priest’s reply. But Francis did not speak. There was a strained pause. Then Wang bowed politely and departed.
A coldness settled upon Francis as he watched the other disappear. Had he done right in alienating the friendly Wangs? The answer was that the Wangs were not his friends, but lick-spittle opportunists who believed in the Christian God because of Christian money. And yet … his one contact with the community was severed. He had a sudden, frightening sense of being alone.
As the days passed this horrible loneliness increased, coupled with a paralyzing impotence. Lawler, his predecessor, had built upon sand. Incompetent, credulous, and supplied with ample funds, he had rushed about, giving money and taking names, baptizing promiscuously, acquiring a string of ‘ rice-Christians’, filling long reports, unconsciously the victim of a hundred subtle squeezes, sanguine, bombastic, gloriously triumphant. He had not even scratched the surface. Of his work nothing remained except perhaps – in the city’s official circles – a lingering contempt for such lamentable foreign folly.
Beyond a small sum set for his living expenses, and a five-pound note pressed into his hand by Polly on his departure, Francis had no money whatsoever. He had been warned, too, on the futility of requesting grants from the new society at home. Sickened by Lawler’s example, he rejoiced in his poverty. He swore, with a feverish intensity, that he would not hire his congregation. What must be done would be done with God’s help and his own two hands.
Yet so far he had done nothing. He hung a sign outside his makeshift chapel; it made no difference: none appeared to hear his mass. The Wangs had spread a wide report that he was destitute, with nothing to distribute but bitter words.
He attempted an open-air meeting outside the courts of justice. He was laughed at, then ignored. His failure humiliated him. A Chinese laundryman preaching Confucianism in pigeon-English in the streets of Liverpool would have met with more success. Wildly he fought that insidious demon, the inner whisper of his own incompetence.