Читать книгу Heart of Asia - Roy Chapman Andrews - Страница 6

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This is a terrible story, but it is true, nevertheless. It has been going around in my head for twenty years, and for a time I told it in conversation. Then I didn't tell it any more, for my friends couldn't understand the Oriental mind that made it possible. Now I am going to tell it again.

When I was leader of the Central Asiatic Expeditions of the American Museum of Natural History, we tried to return to Mongolia and continue our exploration of the Gobi Desert. War and bandits shut us off like a wall. Brigands literally swarmed on the great plateau.

The only practical entrance from our headquarters in Peking was by way of Kalgan and the Wanshan Pass. A thousand years before Marco Polo's time caravans had climbed the pass, carrying tea and silk to India and the Near East. Over the same ancient trails, in the same way, camels still crossed the desert, returning with furs, wool, and skins from Hami, Turkestan, and Russia.

But after fighting sandstorms, blizzards, and bitter cold, the caravans had to run the bandit gantlet where the trails converge on the railroad at Kalgan. In that final hundred miles, all profits were often lost.

The governor was powerless. Time after time, he sent soldiers onto the plateau, only to have them killed or join the bandits. Finally, conditions became so bad that trade ceased. The brigands found they had killed the goose that laid the golden egg; they had no one to rob.

As usual in China when such situations develop, certain "arrangements" were made. The Kalgan officials agreed to let certain "liaison bandits" enter the city and make private deals with caravan owners. In the first week of the armistice, thirteen thousand camels left Kalgan.

As soon as I learned that the caravans were moving again, I went to Kalgan with MacKenzie Young, a member of our expedition. Unofficially, local officers arranged an interview for us with Kung Ching-wei, a bandit who controlled all the region north of Kalgan. Of course, no one from the yamen, the official residence, could be present. That would have involved loss of face, since Kung carried a price on his head. So we met at a Chinese inn where the proprietor introduced "my friend, General Kung Ching-wei."

A huge man, more than six feet tall and dressed in gray padded jacket and trousers, rose from a chair and bowed gravely. His face looked as though it had been cut from a block of stone and left unfinished. It could have been stone, too, so far as expression was concerned, except the eyes. They showed intelligence and the look was direct, honest, and utterly fearless.

There was a quiet dignity and subtle self-containment about the man that gave me a feeling of confidence. He was one who might kill and rob ruthlessly, but he would keep his word no matter what the price. Anything or anybody, even his life, would be sacrificed for what he considered his obligations. A man of iron.

Mac Young felt it, too. Both of us had met other Chinese bandits, but none like Kung. We knew nothing of his history, except that the Foreign Office told us he would keep any agreement he made to the last letter.

A servant brought tea. In the usual Chinese manner of opening any conference with a stranger, I asked his full name, age, place of residence, and number of children.

The answers came in clipped, staccato sentences. "My name is Kung Ching-wei. My age is thirty-eight. My dwelling place is Chang-peh-hsien. My family—none."

Perhaps my eyes betrayed surprise, for seldom does a Chinese admit he has no family, but his face was like a mask. Kung asked the same questions of me. I used the stilted language of polite intercourse. Suddenly Kung shrugged his great shoulders and said impatiently, "I am a man of the people. Let us forget the phrases of the city and talk as one man to another. We have business to do.

"I am told you wish to send a caravan to Mongolia and want protection. I can give you protection. No one else can. It is only a matter of price."

I could not have been more surprised. Never had I known such directness in any Chinese. I answered in the vernacular, "That suits me. It is the custom of my country. I have one hundred and twenty-five camels, carrying gasoline and food for thirty-seven men. We will remain six months in the desert."

"The usual fee is five dollars for each camel," Kung said.

"I know that," I answered, "but the other camels carry goods for trade and profit. We are men of science. We sell nothing, neither do we buy. Surely it is not the same."

Kung was silent for a moment. "No, it is not the same. The charge for your camels will be half the usual price."

That was that. A simple statement of what he considered fair. I did not attempt to bargain. The whole interview was as utterly un-Chinese as was the directness of Kung himself.

"You will send your caravan to Chang-peh-hsien and accompany it in your motor car. There you may pay the stipulated fee. Carry no guns. My word is your guarantee of safety."

Strangely enough, I knew it was.

"When will you come?" Kung asked.

"Seven days from this morning we will be at the foot of the pass. My lead camel carries an American flag. We will follow in the car."

Kung sipped his tea, the signal that our interview was ended. When we left, he accompanied us to the outer gate as honored guests.

Seven days later our caravan wound in a long line up through a chaos of ravines and gullies of the pass toward the broken rim of the Mongolian plateau where the outer rampart of the Great Wall of China stretches its serpentine length along the basalt cliffs. The camels were almost at the summit when a dozen men appeared from behind the rocks. They were a grim-looking lot, breasts crossed with bandoliers of cartridges, each carrying a rifle and a Luger pistol in a wooden case. One approached the car and saluted smartly.

"We are here by orders of Kung Ching-wei to guard your caravan. I ride with you. The others go with the camels." He spoke in the soft, slurring dialect of the Shansi peasants. Climbing into the rear seat, he accepted a cigarette and settled to enjoy his first ride in a motor car.

Once through the narrow gateway in the Great Wall, we passed the caravan and in an hour were at the gates of Chang-peh-hsien. The bandit directed us to the Inn of the Weeping Willow where we were given comfortable rooms. We were guests of Kung, the landlord told us.

Next morning, a runner came to the inn gate, bearing a red visiting card at arm's length above his head. Kung was inviting us to his yamen; the runner would be pleased to show the way. With the heavy bag of silver dollars in the car, we drove through well-kept streets, past shops filled with goods of every kind. An air of peace and prosperity pervaded the city.

Kung received us in a room which I took to be his office. With no preliminaries, I dumped the silver dollars on a table. He arranged them in neat stacks of twenty each. Then he wrote a receipt and affixed his seal.

"You need give the safety of your caravan no further thought," he said. "Now, it is in my care until it reaches Piang-kiang at the edge of the desert."

After tea and a cigarette, Mac and I returned to the Inn of the Weeping Willow. The proprietor brought cups of hot kaoliang wine.

"What of Kung?" I asked. "He is a bandit and he controls this area, we know, but nothing else. The people of Chang-peh-hsien seem happy, and never have I seen shops so full of goods. It is a strange thing for a bandit stronghold."

"You do not know Kung?"

"No, I only know that the Foreign Office in Kalgan told us he was a man whose word could be trusted, that if we made arrangements with him, our caravan would be safe."

"It is strange, very strange. I thought every man and woman in all North China knew what Kung has done for Chang-peh-hsien. Is it possible you have not heard of the banquet in the Guild Hall six months ago?"

"No, we have not heard."

"Then I will tell you the story, for I, Wang Kwei-shing, began the story. Had it not been for me, Kung would not be alive today. I sat beside him in the place of honor at the Guild Hall, drank his wine, and ate from the covered dish."

This is the tale related by Wang, the proprietor of the Inn of the Weeping Willow. I have supplied the background, but otherwise the story is as the innkeeper told it, with all the drama of a Chinese actor stimulated by a half dozen cups of kaoliang wine.

Kung sat at a table in a mud-walled room, drinking tea. Opposite him was a small, wizened man in the garb of a Chinese peasant, twisting nervously on his stool.

"You have certain knowledge that this caravan will leave Kalgan tomorrow morning?" asked Kung.

"Yes, Honorable Master, it will happen so. I am sure."

"And the silver it carries is a large amount? You are sure?"

"With my own ears I have heard it. While the meeting was being held in the magistrate's yamen, I stood outside the screen. Through a tear in the paper I heard the talk and saw the agreement signed with the comprador [the contract agent] of the bank. Ten thousand Yuan Shi-kai dollars in ten sacks is what was written."

"It will be a large caravan," said Kung. "Where will the silver be hidden?"

"Every third mule, beginning with the second behind the leader, will carry a bag of dollars buried deep in the sacks of millet." "But the guard—how many soldiers will accompany the caravan?"

The little man grinned. "Ah, Honorable Master, there will be no guard. Not one soldier will walk beside the mules. They know that you, the great Kung Ching-wei, would be suspicious were a caravan to leave the city convoyed by soldiers. Even a child would guess that it must be carrying goods of value. But sacks of grain—are they worth fighting for? No. So there will be no soldiers."

"It is a clever trick," Kung mused. "It might have worked. But why did you come to me? What do you expect to gain?"

The little man's eyes narrowed in his wrinkled face. "All the countryside knows of Kung Ching-wei and his generosity to the people of Chang-peh-hsien. Has he not protected the city from bandits? Would not this rich town have been taxed to death by the government soldiers had his men not been here? Has ever any man done a favor to Kung Ching-wei and gone with empty hands?"

Kung rose to his feet. "Events will tell. Now go. I would be alone."

For an hour, Kung sat brooding over his tea. Two years ago, on this very day, he had ridden into the walled city of Chang-peh-hsien with his men. They had been a motley crew, some clothed in ragged soldier uniforms, some in Mongol coats, and some in the sheepskin dress of the border country. But every man had a rifle and from the saddles of twenty or more swung terrible headsman's swords.

Straight to the yamen Kung rode and ordered the magistrate to summon the elders of the city. They came, trembling, bringing the leading merchants. With a wave of his hand, Kung halted the flow of meaningless words of polite greeting.

"I," he said, "am Kung Ching-wei. You have heard of me.

"For three hundred li [about a hundred miles] to the north, and more than that to the east and west, the country is ravaged by bandits. Among them I have made my name. Every venture to which I have laid my hand has yielded silver, or profits. I have walked untouched among a rain of bullets. You know that, by common talk.

"I did not wish to lead this life. My father, my mother, and my brothers were tortured by government soldiers because we were people of substance. The soldiers thought we had a store of silver hidden. All my family were slain except me, alone, who was away from home. I returned to find our houses burned, the bodies of my father and mother half-eaten by dogs.

"Because of that I became a bandit. But I am tired of this life, tired of living like a wolf in the hills, even though I lead the pack. I have a wife and daughter. Some of my men have families, too. We wish a place where we may live like men, not animals.

"This city has strong walls and heavy gates. It can be defended easily. You well know that the soldiers in Kalgan will soon be here to exact tribute for the new governor. I will protect your city, not only from the soldiers but from other bandits.

"In return, I expect your help and loyalty. Rich caravans pass this road, and they will pay us well. What we gain shall be spent or bartered in Chang-peh-hsien. I have spoken."

Two years had passed. Chang-peh-hsien had prospered. It was the only town in the frontier country between China and the grim reaches of the Gobi Desert to escape the toll of raids and tribute taxes.

At first, the tradesmen had been doubtful, but Kung ruled his men with an iron hand. In the first month, a weeping man came to Kung. "I am a poor innkeeper," he said. "An hour ago five of your men drank many cups of kaoliang wine in my house and became quarrelsome. They asked for opium, which I did not have. When I told them there was none, they said I lied and they would find some themselves. They wrecked my house. Now I have nothing left."

Kung's action was swift and terrible. Within the hour, the five men were kneeling, side by side in the city square. Kung himself swung the heavy sword which sent their heads rolling in the gutter. From that day, the bandits paid for what they took in the city and its environs.

Twice in the first year, the governor's troops tried to storm the town. Kung stalked along the walls laughing in their faces, while bullets spattered at his feet or ripped through his clothes. Each time the government soldiers had been almost annihilated. The few survivors brought back a tale which made the elders in Kalgan shake their heads. That One must be protected by the gods themselves, they said. Since then, the bandits had been left in peace.

Kung thought of these things as he sat brooding over his tea in the mud-walled room. Suddenly, he straightened and called to the sentry at his door, "Send Li Ping-go to me."

Li was his second-in-command. In a few words Kung related what he had heard from the yamen runner.

"To intercept the caravan," said Kung, "we must go down into the Wanshan Pass. Probably the mules will swing westward on the small trail to avoid Chang-peh-hsien. In all those ravines and gullies we could make a perfect ambush."

Li frowned. "And, General, they could make just as perfect an ambush for us if they had a mind."

"Yes, I've thought of that. Still, the governor has not moved toward us for many moons. I don't think he has forgotten the lesson we taught him last year. But we will have to take precautions."

"Ten thousand silver dollars," said Li, "is worth some risk. Not many caravans carry money these days. It would be a rich prize. What is your plan, General?"

Kung explained: "I'll take a hundred of our best men. They should be more than enough to handle twice that many soldiers if the caravan is guarded. It should be up the pass at the branch trail by four in the afternoon, not earlier. I'll be there at two and post the men. Li, you remain in charge of the city. We'll feast tomorrow night and have ten thousand dollars to pay the bill."

At noon next day Kung rode out of the south gate of Chang-peh-hsien followed by a hundred bandits in groups of ten. The streets were lined with grinning men and women. They knew not where Kung was bound, but inevitably it meant profits for the city. Kung seldom returned empty-handed.

By two o'clock, as Kung was nearing the head of the pass, a brigand from the rear of the column galloped to his side.

"General," he said, "there is a great cloud of dust on the trail behind us and bugle calls. I don't know what it means."

Kung swung his pony to the summit of a knoll beside the trail and leveled his binoculars. As a swirl of wind swept the dust away, he recognized his own standard, black with a yellow tiger in the center. The men were riding hard, and well in front, lashing his pony, was Li. Kung could see the whip rise and fall.

Ten minutes later Li rode up, covered with brown dust and sweat. "Buddha be praised that I came in time," he panted. "The story of the yamen runner is a lie. The governor has three hundred soldiers in the pass with twenty machine guns. They were posted last night. It was a trick to draw you into an ambush. Not a man could escape."

Kung needed to hear no more. He roared a sharp command and watched his troops wheel and gallop back toward the walls of Chang-peh-hsien. When the last man had passed, he followed in the dust cloud with Li at his side.

"Now," he said, "the story. Tell me."

"It was an hour after you left, General. The runner who came to you sat last night at the Inn of the Weeping Willow, drinking kaoliang wine with a stranger. Their tongues were loosened and their voices reached the ears of the proprietor. He heard them laugh and boast that Kung had been fooled. Before the sun sank behind the Great Wall, they were saying, Kung and all his men would be food for the wolves and ravens.

"The proprietor hurried to the yamen and told his story. The magistrate summoned me and sent his guard to bring the two men. They were drunk and denied the words. However, a few turns of the strangler's cord made them talk.

"Had we not come in time, we should have avenged your death even though we, too, were slaughtered. The gods have protected you again."

Kung was a grim man, but his face softened as he listened to the tale. "You are a true friend, Li. You knew that if I were dead the command would be yours, yet you would have thrown away your life in my behalf. Loyalty and friendship could have no greater test."

Halfway to Chang-peh-hsien, they met hundreds of men on ponies, mules, and donkeys swarming along the road. Some had rifles, others swords and spears. A few carried only scythes. They were on the way to join Li's men against the governor's soldiers.

At sight of Kung a great cheer went up. Kung's heart swelled with emotion. Surely these people loved him, a bandit chief, not merely because he had brought them peace and prosperity amid a world of plunder, but for himself alone!

The next evening Kung invited a hundred men of the city to a banquet in the Guild Hall. For an hour they talked, drinking tea and cracking watermelon seeds between their teeth. Then the doors swung open and the feast began.

Fifty courses came from the kitchen. They were strange dishes—duck's tongues, chicken windpipes, fish stomachs, camels' humps, boars' heads, bears' paws, all laced with palate-tempting sauces. Amber-colored kaoliang wine and white rice-brandy, spiced with red pepper, loosed the tongues of every guest. When bowls of snow-white rice marked the end of the feast, a covered dish was placed in front of Kung. He rose to his feet and, with a motion of his hand, commanded silence.

"Dwellers in Chang-peh-hsien," he said. "For two years we have lived as friends. Today, we meet as brothers. I came to you a wanderer on the face of the earth—a hunted animal, driven from plains to hills and into the fastnesses of the mountains. Not a spot in all the world could I call my own. I lived by the sword, a bandit feared and hated through all the land, with a heavy price on my head.

"On that day, two years ago, when I rode into Chang-peh-hsien with my men behind me and called you together in the yamen, I told you what I wished.

"You were afraid, deathly afraid. You had a right to be. You knew that I could have sacked the city and given everyone of you to the headsman's sword, for you had no defense. You accepted me because there was no other choice.

"I promised you protection and prosperity in return for your loyalty. I have proved myself. Now you have proved yourselves. Only those whose blood is of one color would do what you have done for me. You have given me my life.

"What can I offer you in return to show my gratitude? No gift is worthy of the donor unless it entails a sacrifice. It must be something he cherishes dearly, something he prizes above all else. In return for my life, and that most priceless of all possessions, your loyalty, I offer to you what I value most in all the world. I ask you to pass this dish, which I have prepared with my own hands, from one to another. I ask you each to partake of a morsel. It contains the hearts of my wife and my daughter."