Caravans By Night Part 26

There wasn't. And Trent went to his cabin to shave.

After dinner he and Dana Charteris walked another mile around the vessel; stood for some time in the bow, watching the flying-fish skim the gla.s.sy undulations in greenish, phosph.o.r.escent flashes; sat in their deck-chairs in the shadow of a looming cabin (and the spell of low-hung Oriental stars) and talked of inconsequentials.

For some time after she left, he sat sunken in cavernous absorption. He was aroused by a voice close by--a quiet familiar voice that asked if it were not a rare night. He turned to see a tall figure near his chair.

Starlight dwelt on even mobile features, a high forehead, slender hands and eyes that looked inquisitively into his.

He answered that it was indeed a rare night. Whereupon Hsien Sgam politely enquired if he might occupy the chair next to Trent's. As he moved, the Englishman noticed that he slued slightly to the left--saw the twisted limb. The Mongol lit a cigarette. The flare of the match brought his face into ruddy prominence. In that brief moment Trent felt that ancient wickedness, refined to an exquisite degree, looked at him from beneath the bronze lids; then the match died and Hsien Sgam spoke in his quiet cultured voice, and Trent realized to what fantastic borders imagination can extend.

The Oriental asked perfunctorily if Trent intended to remain long in Rangoon, and ventured that it was a very quaint city; and, quite as perfunctorily, Trent responded that he wasn't sure how long he'd be in Rangoon, and that from all he'd heard it must be very quaint.

Conversation threatened to pursue a dull course until Trent opened the subject of the political situation in Mongolia.

"Ah, Mongolia!" Hsien Sgam drew a deep breath. "It is there as it is elsewhere in the East. The Holy Lands, as you call them, are dead--sterile as eunuchs. Ghandi preaches--is _Swaraj_ the word?--in India; China is locked in inner convulsions; j.a.pan is a dragon with fire in its nostrils; Korea and Manchuria are but manikins that act as Tokyo directs; Siam, Indo-China, Malaya and Burma are the only peaceful spheres, and their people are children, thoughtless children. Asia has red wrath in her bowels. I am afraid for her. But Mongolia--you asked about Mongolia?...

"The world moves in cycles," the Easterner continued. "It is the inexorable law. Asia was at its--er--pinnacle about twelve hundred and twenty-seven; then Europe. Europe is dipping; next America--and after that?" The slender hands shaped into an oddly expressive gesture. "The failure of Sultan Baber was the beginning of a slow death for my country. Now there seems but one future--that of a base from which j.a.pan can operate in Asia. j.a.pan must have food, too, and already the Szechuanese and other border people have pressed into Mongolia and proved it fertile. And we have unworked mineral resources...."

"But j.a.pan is apparently retrenching in her policy," Trent reminded him, finding himself interested. "What of the Allied Consortium?"

He imagined he could see a smile upon the Mongol's face.

"The Consortium is--forgive me--a bubble, a beautiful bubble with magic prisms and exquisite tints. j.a.pan will see to it that loans to China are made as she wishes them."

"j.a.pan improved Korea"--thus baiting conversation.

The reply came quietly, but vehemently. "Yes, my friend, j.a.pan improved Korea. She scientifically reforested its mountains, built roads and railways, public buildings and sanitary houses.... But j.a.pan slew soul to erect in its stead a structure without conscience or heart. j.a.pan may improve China--but it is not for China, but for the time when j.a.pan controls China and compels her four hundred millions to form a unit of her military organization."

Quiet ensued for a s.p.a.ce. The myriad sounds that brew in the bowels of a vessel came to them--the jangle of bells, smothered by decks, and the ponderous, deep-throated roar of funnels.

"An example of j.a.pan's purpose and her power is the cancellation of Mongolian autonomy," pursued Hsien Sgam. "When my people formed a government of their own, they expected the protection of Russia. But Russia failed. s.e.m.e.nov, the Cossack adventurer and agent of j.a.pan, threatened invasion, and my people, frightened, appealed to China. The consequences you know. Hsu Shu-cheng, with four thousand troops, occupied Urga. Hsu forced the Hut'ukt'u to sign a pet.i.tion returning Mongolia to China. Later it was learned that Hsu's troops were equipped with j.a.panese money."

Trent settled deeper in his chair, his eyes lifted to the roaring funnels where volumes of smoke were sucked up as by invisible vacua.

"But there is a key to supremacy in Mongolia," Hsien Sgam resumed. "It is the projected extension of the railway from Kalgan to Kiachta.

Whoever finances that, thus linking China with Europe, through Mongolia, will be the sovereign power. Will j.a.pan--or your Allied Consortium? I think, my friend, the former--unless it is prevented. And how can that be done?"

Trent took him up. "How?"

Hsien Sgam did not answer immediately. Finally:

"Mongolia can a.s.sert her rights--by force."

Trent lowered his eyes to the indistinct outline of the Mongol's face.

"She hasn't arms or ammunition or organization--and, furthermore, what good would a revolution do?"

Hsien Sgam answered the latter half of his question.

"It would give Mongolia self-government; and she could refuse a concession to any power to construct a railway through her territory.

Organization? You spoke of that. No, they have no organization. But I have a dream--an ultimate--do you say Utopia? It is a union of the Mongols of Barga, the Buriats of Transbaikalia, the Chakhar tribe, the Khalkas, and even the Hung-hu-tzees, into a single unit--or, if you wish it, an empire. Tibet might be included. But that--that is only a dream.

There is but one man who could possibly bring that about--and he is a p.a.w.n of China. The Dalai Lama...."

In the pause that followed, the glow of his cigarette showed Trent an imperial profile--like a bronze head of some Mongol conqueror he had once seen. A queer a.n.a.logy struck him. Timur the Lame, who seared Asia with his vitriol. But there was an alien element in the likeness that he conjured--dust on the reflection. It haunted Trent and eluded a.n.a.lysis.

"The Church dominates Mongolia," the quiet voice went on, "and the Dalai Lama is its--how do you say it, Pope? He lost much power when the English drove him from Lha.s.sa, but after years of wandering he came into his pontificate again. However, the President of China had a purpose in restoring him. He knew the power of Tubdan Gyatso--knew also that he would be safer in Tibet than Mongolia."

They smoked on. Presently Trent asked other questions, about customs and people and history. The subject swung to literature. Hsien Sgam talked at random of Chinese philosophers and poets: Confucius, Mencius, Lao Tzu, Yang Chu, Kang-hsi. There were giant dimensions of mentality behind his speech. Every word was surcharged with restless energy; thoughts hot from the vortices of emotion. But, underneath, was a current of bitterness that surged up at intervals and injected into his usual calm a pa.s.sionate, almost terrible, intensity. It was more evident when he referred to his affliction.

"My father, who was a prince of the house of Hlaje Khan, believed that one of his sons should be sent into your world and acquire learning and enlighten the people," he said. "I, being lame and never entering into physical activities, was considered a student--and I was sent. Among the elders it was looked upon as an honor, but those with whom I played as a boy and grew up.... Well, in Mongolia, as elsewhere, virtue is in muscle and cowardice in morality. I went into your world and--I say this with no meanness--it hurt me. I took back wounds. Many things I was taught, among them a realization of the truth of a certain Manchu proverb about women. Yes--I wonder, my friend, why I tell you this, but perhaps it is the night and the sea--a woman entered my life for the first time--a woman who came as a leopard and left the mark of her claws."

As he talked on, unfolding with a readiness that puzzled yet did not fail to interest Trent, the latter closed his eyes and smoked, and imagined he was transported, through some reversed medium of metempsychosis, across a dead interval of time and was listening to the voice of Timur the Lame. The stars drowsed above them, like sleepy eyes, and the s.h.i.+p was a dim, prowling world when they parted.

As Trent undressed he reflected upon the conversation with Hsien Sgam.

He felt that he had looked upon a tragic anomaly in the person of the lame Mongol. Learning had refined his primitive impulses to a higher degree of intellectuality; affliction had warped his vision.

Civilization, with him, was a varnish; he did not possess its essence.

In a day less modern, when men were not so well equipped to kill one another, he might have risen to formidability; now, Trent felt, he could go no further than that group of idealistic radicals whose careers are meteoric, attaining little political significance and ending in the pathetic justice of a firing squad.

He wondered, too, if the encounter on deck was coincidence, or if Hsien Sgam had deliberately sought him. The Mongol would bear watching, he decided, simply for the reason that his own position was one of insecurity and tampering fingers might send it toppling.

Until he went to sleep the memory of Hsien Sgam haunted him, like the shadow of Timur the Lame cast down through the centuries.

6

Morning and another day of peac.o.c.k-blue and gold.

After breakfast Trent visited the confined Guru Singh. The native was no more communicative than before but Trent did not press his point, for a better plan than blatant questioning had a.s.serted itself.

When he returned to the deck he found Dana Charteris stretched out in her chair, her slim person a symphony in white.

"Good morning," was her greeting as she motioned him into the chair beside her. "I reached a very definite decision last night."

He smiled. _Andantino con languore_ this time. There was a refres.h.i.+ng draught in the mood that he instantly felt--light, golden wine to the senses. Her eyes were like liquid amber.

"Really?"

"Yes. I used to think that all Englishmen were cold-mannered creatures and quite indifferent to their wives, as fiction has it. I've undergone a metamorphosis."

He continued to smile as he packed his pipe.

"Are you accusing us as a nation of polygamous practices?" he asked.

She made a grimace. "Please don't try to be clever or you'll spoil my opinion--and you know countries are judged by single representatives. I warn you that I'm in a desperately serious mood, despite all indications. As proof, I've been wondering if too much travel, too long a sojourn in foreign lands, doesn't affect one's ideas and philosophies--in other words, intoxicate one and leave a craving for the wine of exotic environment."

He contemplated the possibility that her remark was intended as personal; dismissed it; waited for her to continue. Which she did.

"Since you won't be human and ask why I think that, you force me to confess that I'm leading up to a--a personal example."

"Namely?"