“Sergeant Hazlewood, sir. No, sir. Working dress, sir, on horseback. Number Ones for parade to accept the new officer in command, sir.”
“I wish to make at least ten miles today, Sergeant Hazlewood. Have the men been issued the new khakis?”
“Issued, sir, but the captain don’t approve, sir. Scarlet been good enough for a century, sir. No need to change it now, sir.”
Magnus shook his head pityingly.
“Half-company to parade at the stables with ponies thirty minutes from now, Sergeant. Men will be in khaki field dress and forage caps and will carry rifles and a full issue of ammunition. Each man to have his water bottle and his rations on his back. Men to carry one of waterproof sheet and blankets on their saddle, and a sack of oats or grain as available. You have had two hours warning of moving out, Sergeant Hazlewood, so I do not doubt you have everything to hand. Inspection before we ride, Sergeant.”
It was likely that Sergeant Hazlewood had made no preparations at all, Magnus thought. He had probably been concerned solely to look pretty on parade. If that was so, he would be on a charge and his place taken by a senior corporal, the party to move out at dawn.
Carter was stood at Magnus’ shoulder, as was proper for an officer’s servant. His face showed no expression at all. Magnus led him away a distance, asked him what the buzz was. Carter had been long enough in the Legations to have dug up all of the information floating below the official surface.
“Marine Captain’s a stuffed dummy, sir. Jollies are always thick – don’t become a Marine officer if you’re bright enough to make it as a sea officer, sir. Captain don’t know much but likes bright red coats and shiny white topees. Hazlewood gives ‘im what ‘e wants, and ain’t bugger-all use for anything else. No way ‘e’ll ‘ave ‘em ready in thirty minutes, sir.”
“What of the corporals?”
“Two of ‘em, sir. Older man kisses Hazlewood’s arse and ain’t no good for anything else. Drinks, as well. Junior bloke, Pincher Martin, don’t booze much and ‘e’s wide awake, sir.”
“Have a word with him, on the sly, Carter. He’ll be acting in the morning.”
If Corporal Martin was any good, then he would be ready to take over, would know exactly what he should do. If he was incapable, he would rapidly demonstrate the fact.
Magnus waited another twenty-five minutes and walked down to the stables, arriving a timed thirty minutes after giving Hazlewood his command. The yard was empty of men, but the Chinese stable lads had twenty-eight ponies lined up, saddled, rifle buckets strapped on, saddle bags in place and a sack of grain properly tied behind.
The interpreter, Jian, was waiting, dressed as a peasant in white pyjamas and sandals. It was irritating – the man was educated and held down a valuable job and had to show as no more than a farm labourer. There was nothing to be done, however – if he was to dress European than he would be announcing himself as a traitor to China, could well be killed within the week, particularly at risk on the march inland. He could don the garb of a mandarin, of course, and that would make him even more of a target for having no official right to do so. It seemed that showing respect and courtesy to a Chinese employee was to set the man’s life at immediate risk if he remained in China.
“Jian, it appears that we will be unable to march today. Dawn tomorrow. Draw rations for yourself. Have you a revolver?”
The interpreter, a civilian, showed apprehensive. He would prefer not to be a member of an armed party venturing inland. Better for his health if he was no more than a servant, he suggested.
“So be it, man. Carter, my servant will carry a second pistol in his bag. If needs be, take it from him.”
“A last resort, perhaps, my lord.”
“Perhaps. As a naval officer I offer violence as a first resort, I sometimes think, Jian. Perhaps I might do better to follow your example.”
Jian laughed, a rare indulgence.
“It is not a moral precept, my lord. More of trepidation one might say.”
If Magnus had been entirely certain of the meaning of the word, he would have agreed more readily.
“Five minutes! Jian, be so good as to inform the stables people that we seem to be unable to set out today. Beg them to be ready for first light. Yourself as well, obviously. Carter, find Sergeant Hazlewood and tell him to place himself under arrest. I shall find Captain Worsthorne and beg him to join Sir Claude and myself. If you bump into him first, you may ask him to report to Sir Claude’s office.”
The problem of rank arose – a Royal Marine Captain was equivalent to a Naval Commander and seniority in post might determine which held command, unless the Minister made a ruling otherwise. Magnus felt he would be wiser to see Sir Claude first.
“Still here, Sir Claude. The Marine Sergeant has proved unable to equip a party to go out today. I have ordered him under arrest, sir, for disobedience to orders. It is too late to march this afternoon and as a result we have lost a good six hours on the road. If we find the missionaries dead, killed immediately before we reach them, then the Americans may claim that our sloth cost their lives.”
That would result in diplomatic uproar in London; the Foreign Secretary might be forced to make an apology. That could finish Sir Claude’s career, would jeopardise his posting to Tokyo for sure.
“I will see that fat-bellied sergeant broken for this, my lord!”
The Minister’s private secretary, a very junior young man recently graduated from Oxford, was sent scurrying to find Captain Worsthorne.
“Tea while we wait, Eskdale? It seems likely he will have to be rousted out of his bed, asleep like the rest of the Marines!”
They waited ten minutes, in increasingly bad temper. Worsthorne eventually arrived, indignant, having been discovered by Carter first.
“I say, my lord, I do not expect to be given blunt messages by your servant!”
Sir Claude interrupted to say that had the captain displayed the most rudimentary competence, there would have been need for no message at all.
“Indeed, Worsthorne, had you done your job properly, he could not have given you any message, because he would have been on the road, where he should have been!”
“But, Sir Claude, I received no order from you, sir.”
“I beg your pardon? I instructed you to ready one half of your men to escort Lord Eskdale this afternoon. I further stated that they must be ready to be absent for more than a week, if the need arose.”
“But, Sir Claude, you did not inform me that the need had arisen. And now I discover that my Sergeant Hazlewood has been placed under arrest, in breach of the chain of command!”
“He is under arrest at my order, Worsthorne. You will transport him to Hong Kong, there to stand before a court charged with dereliction of duty. I will see him stripped of his rank, that I promise you. I might add that my report to your Major aboard the flagship will have nothing good to say of your conduct in this matter, sir. Lord Eskdale has the command of this expedition and will inform you of his requirements. You will personally ensure that the half-company is ready to move out at dawn, Acting-Sergeant Martin in charge of the party. I am aware that he is not the senior of your corporals; I am also aware that he is not an habitual drunkard! Have you anything else to say, Eskdale?”
“Not really, Sir Claude. The obvious, in fact – the men to wear their khakis and to have a full sixty rounds in their pouches. It will be wise, on mature consideration, to lead a pack pony with an extra two thousand rounds and with iron rations. How well are the men trained in horse manage, Captain Worsthorne?”
“They have all ridden, my lord.”
“I see. I think, Sir Claude, that we would be well-advised to take some of the stable lads with us. It does not seem to be the case that the Marines are in the way of looking after their mounts, sir.”
Captain Worsthorne protested that Marines were not, in the nature of things, cavalrymen. Sir Claude made it clear that in these circumstances, they should be.
“The Royal Mar
ines have a proud history, Captain Worsthorne. At one time and another, they have been everything from foot soldiers to elephant mahouts. One might expect them to be competent in the charge of Mongol ponies, such as we have here.”
Captain Worsthorne was crushed. It was the habit of the Marines to boast that they could meet any demand upon them; his seniors would be most displeased to hear of his failure. He might expect his next posting to come very soon, and to be to the least salubrious part of the Empire they could discover. From the prestige of the Legations he would probably find himself aboard an ancient cruiser off Somalia on the slavery patrol – generally regarded as the ultimate in undesirable duty and reserved for those in ill favour in Whitehall.
His career effectively finished, Worsthorne retired to the men’s quarters where he proceeded to vent his spleen on Sergeant Hazlewood, informing him in detail of his incompetence and stupidity, much to the entertainment of the men.
“Sergeant Martin! You will take the patrol out at dawn, fully and properly equipped in the new field dress. Report to Commander Lord Eskdale now. You will expect to be out for several days, probably substantially more than a week.”
Sergeant Martin came to attention and made his salute. A good report from his lordship and his rank would be made permanent, years before he would normally expect to climb the ladder of promotion in the Marines. He ran to discover his orders.
The party paraded immediately before dawn, shivering in the winter cold of North China.
“Where are the men’s greatcoats, Sergeant Martin?”
“Captain ordered they were to be left behind, sir. Not smart on horseback, sir.”
“Five minutes to get them. If the men have anything by way of woollies that will hide underneath, wear them too. At the least, they will need extras to sleep in.”
The men ran, thankful for the laxity of the navy. A Marine officer would never have permitted a deviation from uniform.
Magnus watched as the party mounted up, unimpressed by the seat of the bulk of the Marines. Many of them would be saddle sore before evening and some of the ponies might well be lamed by the poor riders.
“Ride at the walk when possible, Sergeant Martin. Load rifles. Smokeless or black powder cartridge, Sergeant Martin?”
“New model Lee Metford, sir. Smokeless. Men haven’t had much time at the butts, sir. No range here in Peking and the men have been in post for two years, sir.”
“All of them?”
“Six posted in as replacements, sir. Men who went down sick and were sent back to Hong Kong late last year.”
“So, eighteen who have no recent firing practice. Too much to hope for that any have their marksman’s badge?”
Sergeant Martin shook his head; the best men were not to be posted away to ceremonial duties in a Legation.
“Not ideal, perhaps, Sergeant Martin. To be practical, however, we are not to defeat the whole of China under arms with just two dozen rifles. The men are to look fierce and seem martial, I think. Move them out, if you please. No need for scouts and outriders. Two platoons, the interpreter behind the first platoon, pack ponies and grooms behind him, where he can pass on any orders to them. Second platoon to the rear. Have we got any other baggage?”
“Four cooks, sir, with their pots and pans. Two labourers to work their fires for them. Eight men to look after the tents and put them up and strike them, sir. Pack ponies to their needs. Cook for the Chinks, sir. They can’t be eating our food. Works out about thirty Chinks, sir. We kept their numbers down to the least possible, sir. If it was India, we’d have at least sixty bearers. Don’t reckon to make much more than ten miles a day in India, but we ought to get a good fifteen, sir.”
“How fast are they moving in South Africa, do you think, Sergeant Martin?”
“Against them Boers, sir? Sticking to the railway lines, where they can, sir. Makes it a bit easier to shift the baggage, sir. No railways here for us, sir.”
“Pity. The damned fools of missionaries have gone away from the rivers, too.”
“Can’t use the gunboats, sir. Pity. Could keep a medical orderly with us, if we had a gunboat, sir.”
“I hope to avoid shooting, Sergeant Martin. Too few of us to fight our way in, against thousands of Chinese. As for the fevers – that’s in the lap of the gods. At least it’s winter. Healthier campaigning in cold weather, so long as we don’t get too much in the way of snow.”
They made eighteen miles and camped in the market square of a larger village, not to the villagers’ pleasure.
“Don’t fancy cleaning up after the horses and the men, sir. Tough bloody luck!”
Magnus shrugged. The woes of the villagers were the least of his concerns.
“Jian, is there any word of the American missionaries?”
“They are at least thirty miles distant, my lord. Nothing said there will have come to these people’s ears.”
“No rumours?”
“None, sir. The Boxers are south of here and the word is that they are spreading north only slowly. They do not expect to see them this month. They will come, for sure, and they will not wish to offer you any complaisance as a result. They could have their heads taken as traitors if they are careless.”
“Will they sell us firewood?”
“Charcoal, probably, sir. Against silver, of course.”
That was obvious surely… Magnus realised what Jian was saying. The charcoal would normally cost a few coppers. The villagers would have to be very well paid to sell at all.
“Do it, Jian. Better the men stay warm while possible.”
They rode two more days across the northern plains, the land almost unchanging, the villages similar, the people identical. The land was dry, unnaturally so. The drought was long established and showed no sign of breaking.
They took water from the few shallow rivers they passed, boiling it rigorously before pouring it into their canteens, watching the cook boys to be sure that they washed their utensils in the boiled water.
“Tell the men to use their water to make tea, Sergeant Martin. Far too big a risk to drink the water without a second boiling.”
The fourth morning saw them at the deserted mission station. It was derelict, in fact, as if the missionaries had decided they would not return to the location. There were a few local families resident in the bungalows.
Jian spoke to the men; the women having hidden away from the soldiers.
“They are converts, sir. Local Christians who cannot return to their villages and have been left here as caretakers. There are vegetables in the gardens and a well which still has water. They say that Reverend Lakeham has gone to the hills, at about ten miles distant, Mr Daubney with him, and the Reverend’s family. The word is, they tell me, that the Prefect, or so one might call him, has taken them into his custody following a dispute with local people, the details of which are unknown to them. It is possible that the Prefect has placed them under guard, for their own protection, following threats against them. The whole business is unclear. Reverend Lakeham has two daughters, one of them of fifteen years, and there is some word that a merchant of Yanking has made an offer for her. A generous sum, too, and he may feel insulted to have been turned down, out of hand, as they say. It is possible that the gentleman has friends, my lord.”
Most people had friends, Magnus thought, and almost said so before he realised.
“Friends? Oh, Christ! Triad?”
“It is not impossible, my lord.”
“What the hell do I do, Jian?”
“I do not know, my lord. No doubt the Reverend Lakeham has tried prayer. You must seek other recourse, I suspect.”
It seemed that Jian could see the funny side of the situation. Magnus could not.
Two hours of cautious riding, watching their backs and with eyes peeled to the sides and they came to Yanking. There was no sign of hostility in the parched countryside. Too few people and them huddled close to their worn-down houses, malnutrition rampant, starvation hovering.
“Poorer even than the lands around Peking, Jian.”
“The drought has hit hard, my lord, and there is no supplier of rice or grain from charity. Nearer to Peking, the Imperial Court distributes a little by way of food, to show their goodness to the people. Here, there is no lord to care, or so it seems.”
“The Prefect?”
“He is here to make money, not to give it away, my lord. The merchants may still be rich, but they must not be seen to give alms to the poor. It would be to step out of their place if they were to feed the multitudes, my lord. They could lose their heads for thinking treason, usurping the role of the lords. The lords may not choose to give charity, but no other may perform such a function.”
It was very sad, Magnus thought, and typical of a country that was collapsing, falling into decay. It reminded him of much that he had read about France before the Revolution, when the lords had demanded privilege and refused all duty. Perhaps the Boxers would supply the revolution that this country needed, but hopefully not while he was leading just two dozen men and far distant from support.
The town was only small, by Chinese measurement, containing no more than a hundred thousand residents, and possibly as many more fled from the starving countryside. It had twenty-foot tall mud-brick walls with fortified but open gates. There were sentries posted, variously armed with single-shot breech loading rifles and ancient flintlocks and swords and spears; they did not seem hostile, but there were many of them.
“Jian, ask for an officer? Request permission to call upon the Prefect?”
“Yes, my lord. Better to be polite and to let it seem that you have come to discover what has happened rather than to give orders for what must occur. I shall make quiet mention of the Greens, my lord. They will probably not be busy here, but the leaders of the different societies are commonly polite, one to another.”
Whether the Greens were the key or whether the Prefect believed himself to be in over his head, they were kept waiting for a bare half hour.
“Time for the messenger to reach his officer and for the officer to speak to the Prefect, my lord, and for a runner to return. As quickly as is possible, in fact, my lord.”
Chinese Whispers Page 8