Finally the oxcarts were ready to go, and Jonathan took a deep breath. It was time to open the door and climb onto the carts. Calmly Jonathan drew back the wrought-iron bar that secured the door and stepped outside. The crowd parted for him. Mrs. Cheng followed, holding Ruth; then came the rest of the group. All went well as they climbed onto the carts. Although hundreds of people were gathered around, many of them with rocks in their hands, no one moved to stop the missionaries from leaving. There was an eerie silence as the carts rumbled over the cobblestone streets and through the town gate.
It was then that Jonathan saw them—all four hundred of them. Armed men with bags of stones and daggers gleaming from their belts were lying in wait for the missionaries around the first bend in the road. Jonathan felt his heart go cold and his arm tighten around Paul, who was sitting beside him. Before he could do anything more, a hail of stones began landing on the group, followed by something much worse: bullets. Several of the oxen were shot, and they collapsed. One fell against a rock, and Jonathan heard a sickening crunch as its back broke. Another ox, wild with panic, ran headlong into the cart in front, becoming tangled in its load.
Jonathan knew he had to act quickly before everyone was killed. He jumped down and began waving his arms furiously. “Take all of our things, but don’t kill us!” he yelled in Chinese.
His words, though, seemed to enrage his enemies, who all turned their anger on him, pelting him with stones. One hit him on the side of the head. Jonathan felt warm blood oozing down his face and onto his clothes, but he kept yelling.
The mob rushed forward, energized by the sight of blood. Jonathan felt the dull thud of a heavy sword against his neck, quickly followed by a blow to the back of his head. Instinctively he raised his left arm to protect his face. As he did so, one of the mob ringleaders let out a yell of rage as over and over again the man sank his sword into Jonathan’s forearm. Jonathan reached back with his other arm to steady himself against the cart, frantically looking around for his wife and children as he tried to fend off the blows. They were still on the cart. Ruth was screaming, and Rosalind held a pillow over baby Wallace to protect him from the hail of rocks that rained down on them. Just as he was about to yell to them, Jonathan felt a massive thud against the back of his skull. His knees gave way, and he fell to the ground into a puddle of his own blood. The last thing he saw before his eyes closed was the hooves of a horse galloping towards him at full speed. Then his vision went blurry and everything fell silent.
Jonathan was unconscious for only a few moments. When he came to, he saw that the horse had thrown its rider and was rearing up right in front of him. One attacker was beside him, but the others were prevented from getting any closer to him by the uncontrollable horse. As Jonathan staggered to his feet, the attacker raised his sword to deliver another powerful blow. Amazingly, he didn’t. Instead he put his face close to Jonathan’s and whispered urgently to him, “Get your family away from the carts.”
Immediately Jonathan’s mind was clear again. He wiped the blood from his face and looked around. The crowd that had been content to stand by and watch the mob kill the foreigners was now surging towards the carts, obviously intent on looting them. Shouts of rage went up from the attackers as they realized these people were going to “rob” them of “their loot.”
For the next few minutes, complete chaos reigned. Men hacked at each other with swords and knives, and the women tugged at the missionaries’ belongings, overturning several of the carts in the process.
Jonathan sensed that this bedlam gave him the opportunity he needed, and he staggered towards his family. “Get down from the cart,” he yelled to Rosalind. “We must get away now.”
Rosalind took one look at her blood-drenched husband and gasped before jumping off the cart, Wallace still in her arms protected by the pillow. The older children scrambled down off their carts, too, and Rosalind pushed through the fighting.
“Ruthie,” Jonathan heard his wife cry. “Mrs. Cheng was carrying Ruth, and I can’t see them.”
“Come on, Rosalind,” urged Jonathan. “We can’t go back now. Ruth will be safe with Mrs. Cheng. We must get out of here.”
Rosalind turned and trudged onward, Helen mute with fear, dragging on her mother’s skirt. As they tried to escape, several men from the mob followed them, throwing rocks and jeering. By now Jonathan was barely able to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. His head spun, and he wanted to let go of his wife and sink to the ground. Just then Rosalind spun around, her eyes as wild as those of a cornered mother bear trying to protect her cubs. She thrust baby Wallace into Jonathan’s arms and faced their attackers. “Go ahead and kill me if you want to,” she yelled above the din, “but spare the children. They haven’t done anything wrong.”
Much to Jonathan’s amazement, the attackers stopped hurling rocks and listened to Rosalind. They looked startled to hear a “foreign devil” speaking to them in their language. As the men began arguing among themselves, Jonathan, Wallace still in his arms, sank to his knees. His head throbbed, and blood gushed from the gashes in his forearm and on the back of his head.
After what seemed the longest minute of Jonathan’s life, one of the rock throwers called out, “We have killed her husband. Let her go.” A roar went up from the others as they raced back to claim their share of the missionaries’ goods.
“Get up,” Jonathan heard his wife urging. “We’re going to walk to that village over there. Perhaps they will show us mercy.”
Jonathan struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on Rosalind’s shoulder. One step after another Jonathan willed himself to walk towards the next village. He was barely aware of the mob that surged through its gates, rocks in hand. His last ounce of energy drained from him, and he sank to the ground once again. This time there was no reserve of strength to summon. He lay on the ground semiconscious and felt Rosalind’s hand in his. His last memory was of looking up and seeing his wife kneeling over him, her tears mingling with his blood. Around him he could hear Paul and Helen sobbing loudly.
When Jonathan regained consciousness, he was lying on a pile of hay in a small brick room with only one tiny window. A flood of relief raced through him when he heard Rosalind’s voice.
“I’m so glad you are all right,” she said.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice raspy and weak. He felt Rosalind’s hand press gently on his chest.
“Don’t try to sit up,” she said. “A man packed your wound with gray powder. It stopped the bleeding, but I haven’t bandaged it yet.”
Jonathan looked up at his wife. Her face was so swollen and bloodied he could barely recognize her. “Oh, Rosalind, are you all right?” he asked. “And what about the children? Is Ruth with us?”
“Not yet,” replied Rosalind. “But I am trusting God is watching over her.”
“How did we all get here?” asked Jonathan.
“It was remarkable,” exclaimed his wife. “Just as you collapsed, the people from the next village came out to see what all the commotion was. The women took pity on us and persuaded the men to carry us inside the walls where we would be safer. We are in a mud hut. They locked us in for our own safety, and they have been handing hot water in through the window. They have even sent us food—stale bread and millet gruel, though no one feels like eating yet.”
Throughout that day and long after the sun had set, Jonathan and his wife nursed each other and tried to comfort their children. They prayed that the other missionaries had also been able to escape and that Ruth and Mrs. Cheng were safe. They also prayed that they would somehow find a way out of their predicament.
It was the next day before they heard the door of the mud hut open. Standing silhouetted against the bright light of the sun was Mr. McKenzie. When he saw that Jonathan was still alive, he rushed to his side and began weeping. It took a full minute before he composed himself enough to talk. “Praise God, you’re alive!” he said many times over.
Jonathan propped himself up on his elbows, ignoring the searing pain that shot down his neck. “Is everyone all right?” he asked anxiously. “Have you heard word of Ruth?”
Mr. McKenzie smiled down at him. “Wee Ruthie is fine,” he assured them in his Scottish brogue, “though only through the bravery of Mrs. Cheng. When the mob tried to get at the child, Mrs. Cheng made her lie on the ground and then spread her body over Ruth, shielding her from the blows and rocks.”
“Thank goodness for that faithful woman!” exclaimed Rosalind, tears streaming down her swollen face.
“And what of the others?” asked Jonathan.
“They are all alive, though Dr. Leslie has serious wounds. They are all waiting in a cart outside the gate. I was sent to find you so we could travel on.”
Jonathan nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “it’s time to go on.”
“But Jonathan…” Rosalind’s voice trailed off as he sat up.
Mr. McKenzie helped Jonathan struggle to his feet. Jonathan leaned against the wall waiting for the dizziness to pass. Rosalind gathered the children, and then Mr. McKenzie opened the door.
Jonathan staggered forward, his head throbbing. Standing up had also opened up several of his wounds, which began to ooze blood again. He felt Rosalind’s arm steadying him under his shoulder, but he gently pushed it away. “Take care of the children,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Only pray the Lord will give me strength to go on as long as He has work for me to do.”
Outside the mud hut a crowd of people had gathered, not the loud, jeering mob of the day before but a quiet, subdued group. Some of the women held out filthy pieces of clothing as the missionaries walked past. “Here, lady” said one woman. “We know this is not much, but it is all we have. Take these things. Your children will be cold at night, and you have nothing to cover them with.”
One old man took off his shoes and ran up to Rosalind. “For you,” he said, pointing to her bare feet. “To stop the stones from hurting you.”
Jonathan struggled to understand why these people were being so kind to foreigners. Mr. McKenzie must have been thinking the same thing, because he asked, “Why? Why are you being so kind to us?”
“We are a Muslim village,” said the old man who had given Rosalind the shoes. “How could we face our God if we joined in destroying you?”
As Jonathan staggered along the road that led out of the village, he hoped the citizens of the towns that lay ahead would show the same compassion, though deep in his heart he was sure that more danger and trials lay before them.
Chapter 9
Ku-Mu-shih
Outside the village the others were waiting on several carts that had been stripped bare of the missionaries’ belongings. On one cart sat Ruth and Mrs. Cheng. And while they all had a joyful reunion, they knew many dangers still lay ahead.
Jonathan lay in the bottom of a cart beside Dr. Leslie, who was groaning with pain. “They took everything,” he whispered hoarsely to Jonathan, “including my doctor’s bag and my bottle of antiseptic. We have to get more from somewhere, or our wounds will become poisoned and gangrene will set in.”
Jonathan lay back, too exhausted to reply.
As the oxcarts moved slowly away, the residents of the village yelled after them. “Good-bye. May God take you safely to your destination.”
The road wound through a few millet fields and onto the next town, Nanyangfu. As soon as they were within a mile of the gate to this town, another huge crowd surged out to meet them. All of China seemed to be in an uproar, and the people were anxious to blame foreigners for all of their troubles. “Kill! Kill! Kill the foreign dogs!” came the cry from the crowd.
By the time the missionaries reached the town gate, the crowd had become very agitated, hurling bricks and rocks at them.
“Quickly, we must find refuge in an inn,” said Mr. McKenzie. “This crowd wants blood.”
He guided the oxen to the left, into the courtyard of the nearest inn. Over a thousand people surged in behind them, making it impossible to shut the gates. Without speaking, the missionaries quickly helped one another inside and bolted the door.
