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After resting in an inn for several days, we were summoned before the Emperor. The Emperor advanced to look us over. He was a merry monarch. Not more than forty, with a clear, pallid skin that had never known the sun, he was paunched and weak-legged. His eyes were bleared, the lips twitching and trembling from the various excesses in which he indulged. His servants began to mock at us, and everybody was laughing.
I had the will and the fearlessness. A palace eunuch, tickling my neck with a feather from behind, gave me my start. I gave no sign, made no move, until I had located him. Then, like a shot, without turning head or body, merely by my arm I hit him. My fist met his cheek and jaw. He landed in a heap on the floor a dozen feet away.
There was no laughter, only cries of surprise and murmurings and whisperings of “Yi Yong-ik.” Again I folded my arms and stood. Proud, disdainful, I met the eyes upon me and made them turn away—all eyes but one. These were the eyes of a young woman. She was the Lady Om, princess of the house of Min. Did I say young? She was fully my own age, thirty.
She alone looked me in the eyes without wavering until it was I who turned away. There was neither challenge nor antagonism in her eyes—only fascination.
“Stop it!” I thundered in their own language. Oh, I had a chest and a throat. I am sure such a loud command had never before cracked the sacred air of the Emperor’s palace.
The great room was aghast. Only the Lady Om made no sign nor motion but continued to gaze wide-eyed into my eyes which had returned to hers.
Then fell a great silence. A multitude of eyes timidly stole back and forth from the Emperor to me and from me to the Emperor.
“He speaks our language,” said the Emperor at the last.
“I was born with this language,” I replied. “I spoke it at my mother’s breast. I was the marvel of my land. Wise men journeyed far to see me and to hear. But no man knew the words I spoke. In the many years since I have forgotten much, but now, in Cho-Sen, the words come back like long-lost friends.”
I certainly made an impression. The Emperor swallowed and he asked:
“How do you explain this?”
“The gods of birth were careless,” I answered, “and I was mislaid in a far land and nursed by an alien people. I am Korean, and now, at last, I have come to my home.”
The Emperor interrogated Kim.
“He was always speaking our language, from the time he came out of the sea,” Kim lied.
“Bring me the garments,” I said, “and you will see. And leave my slaves alone. They have journeyed far and are weary. They are my faithful slaves.”
In another room Kim helped me change. He was a good fellow.
“I am of the blood of the house of Koryu[84],” I told the Emperor, “that ruled at Songdo[85] many years ago.”
This ancient history was told me by Kim on the long ride.
“These,” I said, when the Emperor had asked me about my company, “these are my slaves, all except that old man there”—I indicated Captain Maartens—“who is the son of a free man.”
I told Hendrik Hamel to approach.
“This one,” I continued on, “was born in my father’s house of a slave who was born there before him. He is very close to me. We are born on the same day, and on that day my father gave me this man.”
Taiwun[86], the Emperor’s brother, was a great drinker, and in the night wore he challenged me to a drinking. The Emperor was delighted, and commanded a dozen of the noblest drinkers to join us. Of course, I won.
The palace was a city in itself, and we were lodged in a sort of summer-house that stood apart. The princely quarters were mine, of course, and Hamel and Maartens, with the rest of the sailors, had to live in what remained.
I was summoned before Yunsan[87], the Buddhist priest. It was his first glimpse of me and my first of him. Lord, Lord, what a man and a mind was Yunsan! He knew things of other lands and places that no one in Cho-Sen dreamed to know. Did he believe my fabled birth? I could not guess, for his face was less changeful than a bowl of bronze.
What Yunsan’s thoughts were only Yunsan knew. But in him, this poor-clad priest, I sensed the power in all the palace and in all Cho-Sen. I sensed also, that he wanted to use me.
I answered, too, the summons of the Lady Om, following a cat-footed eunuch through quiet palace byways to her apartments. She lodged as a princess should lodge. She, too, had a palace to herself, among lotus ponds where grow little trees centuries old. Bronze bridges spanned her lily ponds, and a bamboo grove screened her palace apart from all the palace.
The Lady Om did not waste time. There were women about her, but she regarded their presence no more than a carter his horses. I sat beside her on deep mats that made the room half a couch, and wine was given me and sweets, served on tiny, foot-high tables inlaid with pearl.
Lord, Lord, I looked into her eyes—But wait. Make no mistake. The Lady Om was no fool. I have said she was of my own age. She knew what she wanted. She knew what she did not want. It was because of this she had never married, although all pressure had been vainly put upon her to compel her to marry Chong Mong-ju[88], the cousin of the Lady Om.
The Lady Om was a flower. Her religion was a series of abstractions, partly learned from Yunsan, partly worked out for herself. She was beautiful—yes, very beautiful!
I have said she was no fool. In this first meeting I mentioned what I had told all the Court, that I was a Korean of the blood of the ancient house of Koryu.
“Stop it,” she said, tapping my lips with her peacock fan. “No child’s tales here. Know that with me you are better and greater than of any house of Koryu. You are…”
She paused, and I waited.
“You are a man,” she completed. “Not even in my sleep have I ever dreamed there was such a man as you in the world.”
Lord, Lord! And what could a poor sailor do? I blushed, and the Lady Om clapped her hands for her women, and I knew that the audience was over. I knew, also, there would be other audiences, there must be other audiences.
“The woman is a woman,” said Hamel, after deep cogitation. “Win to her[89], and some day we will get ship and escape from this cursed land. I’d give half the silks of the Indies for a meal of Christian food again.”
He regarded me intently.
“Do you think you can win to her?” he questioned.
It was the challenge. He smiled.
“But not too quickly,” he advised. “Quick things are cheap things.”
Strange days followed: my audiences with the Emperor, my drinking bouts with Taiwun, my conferences with Yunsan, and my hours with the Lady Om. Besides, by Hamel’s command, I was learning from Kim all the court etiquette and manners, the history of Korea and of gods old and new, and the forms of speech. I was a puppet—puppet to Yunsan, who had need of me; puppet to Hamel, who had some plans. Only with the Lady Om was I man, not puppet.
In the meantime, however, I was caught up in a palace intrigue I could not understand. There was something against Chong Mong-ju. There were cliques and cliques within cliques that made a labyrinth of the palace. But I did not worry. I left that to Hendrik Hamel. To him I reported every detail that occurred when he was not with me. As my slave he insisted upon attending me everywhere.
“Stand by me[90],” I told Kim, “and whatsoever you wish will be yours. Do you have a wish?”
“I would command the palace guards,” he answered.
“Wait,” said I, “and that will you do. I have said it.”
I left scheming and intriguing to Hamel and Yunsan, who were the politicians. I was mere man and lover, and my time was merrier than theirs. I think the Lady Om guessed the truth and kept it to herself.
The time came when our marriage was mooted. The palace was the pulse of Cho-Sen, and when the palace rocked, Cho-Sen trembled. And there was reason for the rocking. Our marriage would be a blow straight between the eyes of Chong Mong-ju. He fought, but Yunsan was ready. The half of the provincial priesthood was his, with, in addition, all the priesthood of the great cities.
“You must grow your hair for the marriage knot,” Yunsan warned me one day.
It was promulgated by imperial decree that I was a prince of Koryu. Next, I was made governor of the seven home provinces of ancient Koryu. In Cho-Sen seven is the magic number.
Lord, Lord, a sailor… I was a governor of seven provinces, where fifty thousand troops awaited me. Life, death, and torture, I carried at my disposal. I had a treasury and a treasurer.
While Yunsan and the Lady Om at Keijo completed the disgrace of Chong Mong-ju, I proceeded to make a reputation for myself. Of course it was really Hendrik Hamel at my back. Through me Hamel taught our soldiers drill and tactics and strategy.
Back to Keijo and the Lady Om. Lord, Lord, she was a woman. For forty years she was my wife. No voice was raised against the marriage. Chong Mong-ju, in disgrace, had retired to somewhere on the far north-east coast. Yunsan was absolute. The Emperor grew more weak-legged and blear-eyed due to the ingenious deviltries devised for him by Yunsan. The Lady Om and I got all we desired. Kim was in command of the palace guards. Kwan Yung-jin, the provincial governor who had planked and beaten us when we were first cast away, I had shorn of power and banished for ever from appearing within the walls of Keijo.
Oh, and Johannes Maartens. Despite my new greatness, I could never forget that he had been my captain. According to my tale first told in Court, he was the only free man. The sly old fox! I little guessed his intent when he asked me to make him governor of the little province of Kyong-ju[91]. And he took four sailors with him.
Gorgeous were the two years that followed. My seven provinces I governed mainly though men selected for me by Yunsan. The Lady Om possessed a summer palace on the south coast, which we frequented much.
Hamel’s plans grew fast. He began to play to have me made admiral of the Cho-Sen navy of boats, and to inquire of the details of the store-places of the imperial treasury. I could put two and two together.
Now I did not care to depart from Cho-Sen except with the Lady Om. When I said the possibility of it she told me that I was her king and that wherever I led she would follow. As you will see it was truth, full truth.
It was Yunsan’s fault for letting Chong Mong-ju live. Disgraced at Court, nevertheless Chong Mong-ju had been too popular with the provincial priesthood. His emissaries were everywhere, went everywhere, gathering the provincial magistrates. The strength of Chong Mong-ju’s palace clique grew. Chong Mong-ju corrupted even the palace guards, whom Kim commanded. And while Yunsan slept, while I devoted myself to sport and to the Lady Om, while Hendrik Hamel perfected plans for the looting of the Imperial treasury, and while Captain Maartens schemed his own scheme, Chong Mong-ju was not seen.
Lord, Lord, when the storm broke! Captain Maartens really precipitated the catastrophe, and what he did was very favourable for Chong Mong-ju.
The people of Cho-Sen are fanatical ancestor-worshippers, and that old pirate with his four sailors raided the tombs of the gold-coffined kings of the ancient land. The work was done in the night, and for the rest of the night they travelled for the sea-coast. But the following day a dense fog lay over the land and they lost their way. He and the sailors were caught by the local magistrate, one of Chong Mong-ju’s adherents. Only Tromp escaped in the fog, and was able, long after, to tell me of the adventure.
That news sprang the palace revolution. By midnight all was over. At nine in the evening the conspirators compelled the Emperor to order the immediate attendance of the heads of all departments, and as they presented themselves, one by one, before his eyes, they were murdered. Yunsan and Hendrik Hamel were badly beaten and made prisoners. The seven other sailors escaped from the palace along with the Lady Om. They were enabled to do this by Kim, who held the way, sword in hand, against his own warriors. Unfortunately he did not die of his wounds.
Chong Mong-ju was in the saddle. Heads of officials[92] fell everywhere, being replaced by Chong Mong-ju’s appointees; but there were no risings against the dynasty.
Captain Maartens and his three sailors were buried to their necks in the ground of the open space before the palace gate. Water was given them that they might live longer to yearn for the food. They say old Maartens lived longest.
Kim was slowly crushed to death, bone by bone and joint by joint, by the torturers, and was a long time in dying. Hamel, whom Chong Mong-ju divined as my brains, was executed by the paddle—in short, was promptly beaten to death to the delighted shouts of the Keijo people. Yunsan was given a brave death. He was playing a game of chess with the jailer, when the Emperor’s, or, rather, Chong Mong-ju’s, messenger arrived with the poison-cup. “Wait a moment,” said Yunsan. “You should be better mannered than to disturb a man in the midst of a game of chess. I shall drink directly the game is over.” And while the messenger waited Yunsan finished the game, winning it, then drained the cup.
Chong Mong-ju did not kill the Lady Om and me. We were not even imprisoned. The Lady Om was degraded of all rank and divested of all possessions. An imperial decree was promulgated and posted everywhere in Cho-Sen to the effect that I was of the house of Koryu and that no man might kill me. It was further declared that the eight sailors who survived must not be killed. They were to be outcasts, beggars on the highways. And that is what the Lady Om and I became, beggars on the highways.
Forty long years of persecution followed, for Chong Mong-ju’s hatred of the Lady Om and me was deathless. He was favoured with long life as well as were we cursed with it. I have said the Lady Om was a wonder of a woman. Somewhere I have heard that a great lady[93] once said to her lover: “A tent and a crust of bread with you.” In effect that is what the Lady Om said to me.
Every effort I made to escape beggary was in the end frustrated by Chong Mong-ju. In Songdo[94] I became a fuel-carrier, and the Lady Om and I shared a hut that was vastly more comfortable than the open road in winter weather. But Chong Mong-ju found me out, and I was beaten and planked and put out upon the road. That was a terrible winter, the winter poor Vandervoot froze to death on the streets of Keijo.
In Pyeng-yang[95] I became a water-carrier, until Chong Mong-ju sought me out, and I was beaten and planked and set upon the highway.
Ever it was the same. There was never a time or place that the long arm of Chong Mong-ju did not reach out and punish and thrust me upon the beggar’s way. Everywhere the messages were sent to Chong Mong-ju at Keijo–of me, of my comings and goings and doings.
There was no escape. Never was I permitted to cross the northern frontier. The guards carried the commands of Chong Mong-ju to every village and every soul in all Cho-Sen. I was a marked man.[96]
Lord, Lord, Cho-Sen, I know your every highway and mountain path, all your walled cities and the least of your villages. For forty years I wandered and starved over you, and the Lady Om ever wandered and starved with me. What we in extremity have eaten! I have stolen bones from dogs, gleaned the public road for stray grains of rice, robbed horses of their steaming bean-soup on frosty nights.
It is not strange that I did not die. Two things supported me: the first, the Lady Om by my side; the second, the certain faith that the time would come when my thumbs and fingers would fast-lock in the gullet of Chong Mong-ju.
For forty years I was a beggar of Cho-Sen. Of the fourteen of us that were cast away only I survived. The Lady Om was a little, toothless old woman; but she carried my heart in hers to the end. For an old man, I still retained great strength. My face was withered, my yellow hair turned white, my broad shoulders shrunken, and yet much of the strength of my sailor days resided in my muscles.
So I was able to do what I shall now relate. It was a spring morning on the cliffs, the Lady Om and I sat warming in the sun. We were in the rags of beggary, prideless in the dust, when a shadow fell upon us. It was the great litter of Chong Mong-ju, borne by eight servants, with outriders before and behind and attendants on either side.
Chong Mong-ju must have been nearly eighty that spring morning on the cliffs when he signalled for his litter to be rested down that he might gaze upon us whom he had punished for so long.
“Now, O my king,” the Lady Om mumbled low to me, then turned to whine an alms of Chong Mong-ju, whom she affected not to recognize.
And I knew what was her thought. The moment had come at last. So I, too, affected not to recognize my enemy, I, too, crawled in the dust toward the litter whining for mercy and charity.
The attendants wanted to drive me back, but Chong Mong-ju restrained them. He lifted himself on a shaking elbow. His withered old face was transfigured with delight as he gloated on us.
“O my king,” the Lady Om whined to me in her beggar’s chant; and I knew all her love and faith in my emprise were in that chant.
I held up my brass begging bowl, and whined more dolefully, and bleared my eyes to hide the blue fire I knew was in them, and calculated the distance and my strength for the leap. Then my hands closed on Chong Mong-ju’s throat. The litter overturned.
Soon heavy horsemen’s whip-butts began to fall on my head. But Chong Mong-ju could not escape me, and I know he was dead when darkness descended upon me there on the cliffs by the Yellow Sea.
Chapter XVI
I have taught Warden Atherton what spirit is, humbled him with my own spirit that rose invulnerable, triumphant, above all his tortures. I sit here in a prison, awaiting my execution; Warden Atherton still holds his political job and is king over San Quentin; and yet he knows that I am greater than he.
In vain Warden Atherton tried to break my spirit. And there were times, when he would have been glad had I died in the jacket. As he had told me, and as he told me repeatedly, it was dynamite or a coffin.
The time came when Warden Atherton grew afraid, although he still persisted in trying to wring from me the hiding-place of the non-existent dynamite. He was badly shaken by Jake Oppenheimer. Oppenheimer was fearless and outspoken. He had passed unbroken through all their prison hells. Morrell rapped me a full account of the incident. I was unconscious in the jacket at the time.
“Warden,” Oppenheimer had said, “It isn’t a case of killing Standing. It’s a case of killing three men, for as sure as you kill him, sooner or later Morrell and I will tell the word, and what you have done will be known from one end of California to the other. You’ve got your choice. Leave Standing or kill all three of us. You are a stinking coward, you know.”
Oppenheimer got a hundred hours in the jacket for it, and, when he was unlaced, spat in the Warden’s face and received a second hundred hours on end.
To Doctor Jackson I was a novelty, and he wanted to see how much more I could stand before I broke.
“He can stand twenty days,” he told Warden in my presence.
“You are conservative,” I said. “I can stand forty days. I can stand a hundred!”
And, remembering my sailor’s patience of forty years’ waiting ere I got my hands on Chong Mong-ju’s gullet, I added:
“You prison curs, you don’t know what a man is. You think a man is made in your own cowardly images. Behold, I am a man. You are feeble. I am your master. You can’t make me squeal. You think it remarkable, for you know how easily you would squeal.”
Oh, I abused them, called them sons of toads. For I was above them, beyond them. They were slaves. I was free spirit. My flesh only lay pent there in solitary. I was not pent. I had mastered the flesh, and the spaciousness of time was mine to wander in, while my poor flesh, not even suffering, lay in the little death in the jacket.
Much of my adventures I rapped to my two comrades. Morrell believed, for he had himself tasted the little death. But Oppenheimer remained a sceptic to the end. He was regretting that I had devoted my life to the science of agriculture instead of to fiction writing.
“But, man,” I reasoned with him, “what do I know of myself about this Cho-Sen? I am able to identify it with what is today called Korea, and that is about all. How possibly, out of my present life’s experience, could I know anything about
“Aw, come off[98],” he rapped back. “Listen to me now. I am Jake Oppenheimer. I always have been Jake Oppenheimer. No other guy. What I know I know as Jake Oppenheimer. Now what do I know? I’ll tell you one thing. I know
“But it is,” I exulted. “I put it there.”
“All right. Then who put it into your mind?”
“Adam Strang.”
“No. Adam Strang is a fairy-tale. You read it somewhere.”
“Never,” I averred. “What did I read of Korea? Japanese-Russian War. That’s all.”
“Do you remember all you read?” Oppenheimer queried.
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