China Seas

by John Harris

  He shifted his position, brooding on the siege. A fully fledged Boxer was a terrifying figure – like a demon in one of the pantomimes he’d seen back home. The fact that he was a peasant in fancy dress didn’t mean a thing; he was still terrifying with his red ribbons, girdles, head bands, the banners he carried, the spears, the huge curved swords, and his cry of ‘Sha! Sha!’ Kill! Kill! It kept everyone on the wall jumpy and constantly looking over their shoulders.

  There had always been a shortage of food and now everybody was on a diet of malodorous pony meat and rice. And, with summer replacing the damp, mosquito-filled monsoon weather, there had come an intense dry heat that left Peking sweltering.

  Somewhere in the darkness beyond the Russians a patrol was scouting the walls. It was led by a Japanese called Yahitsu Shaiba, who was a clerk at the Japanese Legation and who had proved one of the heroes of the defence. He was a short, sturdy man with a mouthful of teeth like the headstones of a graveyard, but he was brave, intelligent, very active and surprisingly able for a civilian. Everybody liked him, even the Russians with whom he was always chattering and laughing. They pulled his leg, boasting of Russia’s might, but he took it all with a wide smile, and once Willie had wondered if he were a spy.

  It was fortunate there had been a few men like Shaiba because there was a grave shortage of ammunition and because everybody used different weapons, there was no common reserve. Until the old cannon had been built they had had only four pieces of light artillery, among them a British five-barrelled Nordenfelt which always jammed after four shots. However, there were wells in the compound, a store of wheat, rice and maize, and the racing ponies that had been left over from the spring meeting in May.

  But children had begun to die, and the first alarm had been a fire, when the Boxers had sneaked into a corner of the British compound and put the torch to a cluster of native houses, so that a bucket chain had had to be formed, to come at once under fire from the rooftops of the Mongol Market, volley after volley coming through the smoke as they struggled to contain the blaze with soup tureens, jugs, pans, even chamber pots. From then on the smell of smoke seemed to be always in their nostrils.

  In another attempt to carry the place, the Boxers had rained shells into the American and Russian sectors from a distance which could not be reached by the Legations’ lighter weapons, so that trenches, roofed with beams and earth, had been dug and the women set to making sandbags of silks, satins, curtains, trouser legs, anything that would hold sand. Almost without exception they had burst in the torrential rains at the end of the month which had flooded the trenches and saturated them all. With lack of space, lack of information about the outside world and the smell of rotting corpses in the Chinese City, the place had rapidly become a slum.

  ‘I’ve had to give up Mother’s best curtains,’ a pale-faced Emmeline had stared indignantly at Willie as they met in one of the communal eating rooms. ‘She always wanted me to have them for my bottom drawer.’

  ‘Why do you want a bottom drawer? You thinking of getting married?’

  She eyed him sharply. ‘You know I am,’ she said.

  ‘Who to?’

  She had not replied, but he knew she meant him. He must have given her a great deal more satisfaction than the other clerks had managed and she had decided he would do. It wouldn’t be a bad arrangement, he knew, because she was Wishart’s only child and would inherit the business and, at least, it would be a step on the way to making his fortune. But – Willie paused – it hadn’t been his intention to marry money. He’d wanted to make it. And though a fortune of sorts went with Emmeline and it would save a lot of trouble and give him a start, she didn’t ring bells. He knew he wasn’t in love with her. Getting into bed with her was one thing, sharing the rest of his life with her was another. She didn’t laugh much, as if she had her sights on something and was concentrating, and Willie enjoyed laughing. And he had always felt that when you fell for a girl, lights flashed, stars danced and the spheres whirled in their courses. Or something. He expected crashing cymbals when he met the girl he wanted to marry. With Emmeline there was a lot of passion, but it was the wrong sort and it didn’t generate a single tinkle.

  The fighting had continued to be fierce, the Boxers always trying to advance along the top of the Tartar Wall to shoot down into the American Legation. Willie’s corner on the Wall allowed him protection from a stone buttress. In front of him was a sangar of sandbags with a loophole. After a short spell as a stretcher bearer with a first-aid party, his prowess with a rifle had been discovered. Shooting at men was different from shooting at rabbits, but it hadn’t taken him long to get the hang of it and overcome his qualms. His eye was good and his aim was steady. Moreover he was fast and, as one man after another had fallen before his rifle, he had been given the job of sniper, his job being to break up impending attacks before they could get going.

  Living conditions were growing worse now that the heat had come. You could hear the pigs and dogs rooting after the corpses buried among the rubble that gave off such an appalling smell during the day when the temperatures shot up to 110 in the shade. The heat was making the children die more quickly and tempers shortened as those missionaries who were unable to bring themselves to handle a weapon felt it their duty to serenade the embattled fighting men with ‘Marching Through Georgia’ and ‘Nearer, My God, To Thee’. They were already near enough to God, Willie considered, without being constantly reminded of the fact.

  ‘There they go again.’ The man next to Willie spoke as the choir below them began to tune up. He was an American called Frisbee, with a huge handlebar moustache. ‘With their goddam singing.’

  Willie nodded, his mind far away. Despite everything, at that moment he would have given a great deal to be in Emmeline’s arms and in Emmeline’s bed with her warm body against his, her full red lips on his mouth. The thought made him groan.

  Frisbee’s head turned. ‘You all right, kid?’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Thought something had happened.’ Frisbee frowned. ‘They say an army’s landed on the coast and started marching to relieve us.’

  ‘I heard that too,’ Willie said.

  ‘Twenty-five thousand men.’

  ‘Million. I heard.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But they have landed. Americans, I heard.’

  ‘No, British.’

  ‘Americans.’

  ‘British.’

  ‘Americans!’

  Willie felt better. He had forgotten Emmeline’s arms, even forgotten the siege. ‘Bloody British!’

  ‘You’re talking goddam rubbish!’

  Willie grinned ‘So are you. And you know you are.’

  Frisbee grinned back. ‘Yeah,’ he agreed. ‘Rubbish. There ain’t no relief column. We’re all going to die here.’

  As they talked, they heard a flurry of footsteps and highpitched tones that made them reach for their rifles. Then they heard the password and recognised the voices of Yuhitsu Shaiba, the Japanese, and his returning patrol. As they stopped, a shot rang out and the bullet clinked against the wall above Willie’s head to whine away into the dusk. Immediately they heard the harsh blare of trumpets and the shrill yelling that always preceded an attack, and, swinging round, they saw a horde of Chinese running towards them.

  The first of the defenders to appear were the retreating Russians, who came hurtling along at full speed, dropping their equipment as they ran. In the lead was Count Zychov.

  ‘Get behind the barricades!’ The yell came from an American Marine sergeant who was manning a barricade just behind Willie. ‘And hurry, goddamit!’

  As the Russians clattered past, Willie and Frisbee snatched up their rifles and sidepacks and started to follow, almost falling over the Japanese as they scattered. Willie was scampering, just behind Shaiba, his eyes flicking over his shoulders as he ran for a glimpse of the terrifying curved two-handed swords, then Shaiba stumbled and Willie fel
l over him and went sprawling. Sitting up, he saw Shaiba clutching his leg, and, without thinking, he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Come on, you sonofabitch!’ the American Marine sergeant was yelling. ‘How the hell can I let fly with you in the way?’

  Still struggling to help Shaiba, Willie heard him giving orders ‘Load,’ he yelled. ‘When I give the word, rapid fire. Pick your targets. And don’t miss.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Willie screamed, terrified. ‘You’ll hit us!’

  ‘Let me down,’ Shaiba shouted. ‘I’m prepared to die!’

  ‘Don’t be daft!’

  ‘Down!’ the American roared. ‘Flat on your faces!’

  For a second, Willie didn’t understand what he meant. After all there seemed to be a couple of hundred screaming lunatics thundering down on him, but then it dawned on him what the sergeant was after and flinging Shaiba down, he sprawled on top of him. The volley almost shattered his eadrums.

  For a moment, though he could feel no pain, he was convinced he was dead. Then he heard Shaiba moaning beneath him as he struggled to throw Willie aside.

  ‘Another one!’ the sergeant yelled and another volley screamed over their heads.

  ‘Up you sonofabitch!’ the sergeant roared. ‘While we’ve stopped them!’ Looking round, Willie saw that the Boxers had fallen back, struggling over the fallen bodies of their comrades, and, scrambling to his feet, he began to pull Shaiba after him. Jumping over the barricade, two American soldiers grabbed Shaiba’s arms, and with Willie scuttling along behind, dragged him to safety.

  The sergeant grinned. ‘Nearly got your head blowed off there, son,’ he said.

  They didn’t go back to their niche again that night and as they changed places with their relief an hour later and slipped down the ramps into the compound, a British major called Birkett was waiting for them.

  ‘We need volunteers,’ he said.

  ‘I’m already a volunteer,’ Willie said.

  ‘It’s not for here.’

  ‘Where then?’

  Birkett looked hard at Willie. He found it difficult dealing with civilian soldiers. They had little respect for army ranks, never called anyone ‘sir’ and considered that after three weeks of siege they knew as much about fighting as the army.

  ‘Outside,’ he said.

  ‘Outside where?’

  ‘Outside the city. Shantu. Shensi province.’

  Willie looked at Frisbee. ‘That’s thirty miles away,’ he said.

  ‘No more than a day’s good march,’ Birkett pointed out.

  ‘What’s at Shantu? Have the relief column arrived? Do they want guiding in?’

  ‘The relief column hasn’t arrived,’ Birkett said coldly. ‘It probably never will. It’s Gordon and Khartoum all over again, I expect those bloody idiots in the House of Commons are still arguing over the cost.’

  ‘So what’s it all about?’

  ‘There are missionaries there, around two hundred. Mixed French, British and American. Catholics, Anglican, Presbyterian, Baptist, the lot.’

  ‘And we’re going to fetch ’em in?’

  ‘Somebody’s got to.’ Birkett hated the arguing that always followed his orders. ‘We can’t let them be massacred.’

  ‘It’s a goddam wonder they ain’t been massacred already,’ Frisbee said.

  ‘How many men are you intending to send?’ Willie asked.

  ‘Twenty.’

  ‘You’re talking out of the top of your head. They’d never make it.’

  ‘They’ve got to.’

  ‘We’ve got around a thousand people here to defend and we have around four hundred and seventy men to do it! Less, now. And you’re talking of reducing ’em by another twenty to bring in a lot of half-baked Bible-thumpers who hadn’t the sense to get to safety while they could. Why didn’t they come in?’

  ‘They–’ Birkett hesitated then faced up to the fact ‘–they felt their faith would protect them. God will provide. That sort of thing.’

  ‘They deserve all they get,’ Frisbee growled.

  Birkett gave an irritated gesture. ‘It can’t be helped. We want volunteers. I submitted your names.’

  ‘You call that volunteering?’ Willie yelled furiously.

  ‘Somebody’s got to go. You will, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ Willie said.

  ‘Dammit–!’

  ‘Somebody once called me a survivor–’ Willie’s face went blank as he remembered Emmeline and the circumstances surrounding the event – ‘and that’s what I intend to be. A survivor.’

  ‘Sir Claude MacDonald wants to see you before you go.’

  ‘I’m not going.’

  Birkett ignored his protests. It was as if Willie had never opened his mouth. ‘We need the regular soldiers here,’ he said. ‘So we’ve picked the best of what’s left. Most civilians can’t hit a pig in a passage. You two can.’

  ‘Who else is going?’

  ‘Sanders. Ornini. De Faillat. A few British and Americans who’ve offered. All civilians, with an experienced officer to run the show. If you’ll come with me, Sir Claude will see you now.’

  Willie looked at Frisbee. ‘Jesus Christ on a tightrope,’ he said.

  ‘You said it, bud,’ Frisbee agreed. ‘With knobs on.’

  Sir Claude MacDonald was a tall man with sweeping moustaches, imbued with diplomatic calm. He had taken to his new job like a duck to water and had made a surprisingly good job of it. At that moment he seemed full of confidence and the certainty of victory. Willie hated him.

  ‘You can get out by the Tartar Wall,’ he said. ‘There’s a sewer goes out there with an iron grille. It can’t be seen from the Chinese positions.’

  Willie’s hatred increased. It was typical of men like Sir Claude to order other men – among them Willie Sarth – to plough their way through a sewer full of shit to the rescue of a couple of hundred idiots who’d thought that prayer would stop the bullets and swords of the Boxers.

  ‘Once out,’ MacDonald continued, ‘you’d better make your way first to the river. There’ll be guides waiting for you.’ His lips twitched. ‘Besides, I imagine you’ll probably want to wash a little. After that you can go straight across country to Shantu. We understand there are no Boxers on that side of the city so it should be pretty straightforward.’

  Pretty straightforward! Willie’s brows came down. As if anything was ever straightforward! He had thought making his fortune in China would be straightforward. But he had reckoned without Emmeline Wishart and the Boxers. Still – with a bit of luck the mythical relief column might just be genuine and would arrive while they were away and then he need never come back. He could sneak himself away somehow and, hiding among the troops, keep out of Emmeline’s clutches.

  ‘You are among our best men,’ Sir Claude continued, ‘and we depend on you. Good luck to you.’

  As MacDonald disappeared Frisbee crossed himself, as if he didn’t think much of his chances.

  ‘Who’s leading?’ Willie asked nervously.

  Major Birkett gestured. ‘Count Zychov, the Russian.’

  ‘Him!’ Willie’s voice rose to a yell of rage. ‘He couldn’t command a platoon of Chinese pedlars!’

  Frisbee’s face had gone red. ‘I’ll bet they think we’ll not come back,’ he snarled, ‘and they’re sending Zychov in command because he’s the one goddam regular who can best be spared.’

  Willie gave him a plaintive look. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘that’s why they picked us, too.’

  Four

  It was dark as they assembled in the fire-scarred streets near the Tartar Wall. They had to pass through a few of the dark areas of the Chinese city before they reached the safety of the countryside and none of them was looking forward to it.

  Hefting his rifle, feeling the weight of the sidepack containing a few wretched rations he’d been given and the weight of a bandolier of ammunition, Willie waited in the shadows close to the American Methodist Miss
ion. He didn’t feel very brave. He had been to see Shaiba in the hospital and found him lying with his leg swathed in bandages but with his spirits high, his wide mouth filled to capacity with square white teeth.

  ‘You saved my life, Mr Sarth,’ he said.

  ‘It was nothing.’ Actually, Willie had decided, it was quite a lot, though at the time he had acted largely out of panic.

  ‘I shall always be grateful,’ Shaiba went on. ‘One day perhaps, I’ll be able to do something for you.’

  Willie couldn’t imagine what and, at that moment, crouching against the walls, thinking about the security of the hospital he wished he weren’t leaving it behind. Zychov, the Russian officer, seemed nervous.

  ‘I don’t regard being shot at a sensible pastime,’ he was complaining to Birkett.

  Slung about with his map case, revolver, sidepack and binoculars, he looked like a dressed Christmas tree. Frisbee stood next to him, his face in shadow. He and Willie had become close in the fortnight or so since the siege had started. Danger and fear of death made for quick friends. Willie studied the American. He was a self-assured older man who had once fought Indians and Willie wondered what it would feel like if he were killed. It never occurred to him that Frisbee might be looking at him, wondering what it would be like if Willie were killed. I’d probably miss him, Willie thought, but he couldn’t imagine being miserable for long.

  ‘So,’ Zychov stiffened. ‘It is time we must go.’

  A door opened and Willie saw light beyond, then they began to file through, their hands clutching their weapons so they wouldn’t chink and give the game away. Alongside them the wall had scorch marks on it. Two men with pigtails were waiting for them and they spoke briefly with Zychov then led the way through the piled refuse in the deserted streets. Willie didn’t like the look of them and felt sure they were intending to betray them.