China Seas

by John Harris

  There was a glow in the sky to the west where fires were burning, and occasionally they heard stray shots and cries, but the streets in their immediate vicinity seemed to be deserted, and only once did anyone pass them, a figure in the blue clothes of a coolie, his carrying pole in his hands.

  Groping in the blackness, their hands on the stones, they pushed into the shadows, the dim bulk of the city faint against the sky, then they found themselves stumbling in and out of ditches and falling over broken masonry or charred beams. There was a smell of burning everywhere and the stink of death, and several times they heard rats squeaking among the rubble, their claws castanetting over the stones.

  A tunnel opened before them like a black hole in the wall, and Zychov led the way into it. The smell immediately let them know they were in the sewer.

  ‘Jesus Holy Christ,’ Frisbee said.

  Nostrils twitching at the odours, lungs aching, throats burning, chests raw as they tried to hold their breath, they pushed ahead to where they could see a faint light filtering through an iron-grilled gate that closed off the tunnel from the outside. It was half raised and Zychov signed to them to duck under it.

  ‘Duck under it?’ Frisbee said. ‘Into the shit? You crazy?’

  He began to yank at the gate. It refused to move, but he was able to smash the lock with his rifle butt. The rusty hinges screeched as they pulled at it, but they managed to open it enough to squeeze past. At the other end of the tunnel they gathered in a group, sickened by the stench and waiting for the rush of screaming men and the slash of swords. But there was no sound and Zychov consulted a compass.

  They were in dark, deserted streets, the only light the yellow chinks from closed doors and shutters. Skirting stray houses and broken-down hovels, they scrambled over a cascade of broken stones where a store had once stood and headed down an alley, hardly daring to breathe.

  The place was ominously quiet. An occasional stray shot still echoed over the houses, but every door and window was shuttered and barred. Splashing through stinking drains, holding his breath against the smell of ordure and years-old rotting rubbish, Willie found himself thinking again of Emmeline. It was funny how every time he was in difficulty or discomfort he thought of her. After all, he thought, whatever designs she had on him, her bed was a damn sight pleasanter than this and a whole lot safer, too.

  Eventually they came to a wider road and down it they could see across the whole width of the Chinese City. Zychov turned right and they found themselves at a huge bronzestudded gate. Above them the city wall towered like a cliff in the darkness.

  ‘The Hsia Kuo Men gate,’ Frisbee whispered.

  Willie had seen it several times before, when, in the early days after his arrival, fascinated by the quaintness of Chinese life, he had gone exploring.

  There was a single sentry by the gate, which was standing ajar, so that a narrow sliver of light sky showed beyond. Zychov stopped dead and they all stumbled into one another as they came to a halt. The sentry had a rifle on his back and a huge sword in his hand.

  ‘Somebody’s got to take that guy,’ Frisbee said grimly. ‘But I’ll need help. You comin’, Willie.’

  Willie swallowed. ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘Some guy’s got to.’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘When he sees me, he’ll turn. But we’ll have a second while he hoists his sword or reaches for his gun. You jump on his back.’

  ‘Think I can?’

  ‘Bud, you got to.’

  The two of them crept to within a yard or two of the sentry, then, as Frisbee straightened up, the sentry heard him. Swinging round, he shouted something – not a challenge or a warning, just a cry of alarm – and hefted his sword. As he lifted it, Willie grabbed his arm and heaved. The sword fell with a clatter and Frisbee swung his great fist. As the Chinese went limp in Willie’s arms, Frisbee grabbed the sword and swung it. The sentry’s face seemed to split open, and the legs twitched once then he was still.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Willie turned and brought up the remains of his last meal.

  ‘Better him than you, kid,’ Frisbee said.

  The others appeared within seconds and they crowded through the gate into the open country. Outside the walls there were carts and waggons and the huge barrows the Chinese used, all waiting to be allowed in the following morning. Nearby, there were native huts and a few scrappy tent-like structures of canvas and rush matting and the faint glimmer of dying fires. Mules, donkeys and oxen, even camels, were tethered in the shadows, but there was no sign of human beings, and they slipped past unimpeded. Within minutes, they were staring back at the city walls and the glow in the sky where the fires still burned.

  ‘I think we’re safe,’ Zychov said cheerfully.

  Willie wasn’t so sure.

  By daylight they were five miles from the city walls and beginning to breathe normally again. The land was a chequerboard of fields, broken only by the distant ribbon of road that seemed to reach from one horizon to the other. China seemed to be totally devoid of landmarks, but, as the light increased, they saw small villages in the distance, surrounded by maize and sorghum fields and the inevitable rice paddies. There seemed to be no woods, no highways, only lakes and interwoven cart tracks spreading like the tentacles of an octopus from each village to connect it to those about it.

  After a while two men on saddled horses approached them. They looked like ordinary peasants, but Zychov, who was growing more nervous with every mile they marched, ordered them to be captured and shot. The two men raised no objection when they were surrounded and only started yelling when they were placed against a wall facing a firing squad. Willie backed off hurriedly and kept out of the way.

  ‘They’re not Boxers,’ he said to Frisbee. ‘I reckon they were coming for help.’

  The crash of the volley stopped the argument, and when Willie managed to turn round the firing squad were tossing the bodies over the wall. Zychov ordered the horses to be brought forward, and, as he and his sergeant climbed into the saddles, they moved forward again. There was a little muttering, because other people had also had their doubts about the guilt of the two men, but with Boxers everywhere, there was no point in taking chances.

  Then Willie began to notice that Zychov kept getting well ahead of the main party and he glanced at Frisbee. ‘What’s he up to?’ he asked.

  ‘What would he be up to?’

  Willie frowned. ‘He’s in a good position to bolt.’

  After a matter of fifteen miles, with Willie’s feet beginning to grow sore, they crested a small rise and dropped into a shallow valley which was full of woods.

  ‘We’ll halt here,’ Zychov said.

  They pushed among the trees and sat down to eat and rest. The Russian allowed them a short sleep, and it was warm enough to lie where they fell. At midday, they were awakened by the sound of voices, and peering from the woods, saw a column of men armed with swords, bows and arrows and ancient rifles moving past on the dusty road. Some of them were Kansu horsemen and they wore red trousers and jackets of every colour marked with black dragons and tied with red sashes. They had red ribbons round their heads and carried black banners with crimson characters on them like splashes of blood.

  ‘Boxers,’ Frisbee breathed.

  ‘They said there weren’t any round here,’ Willie said bitterly.

  ‘Well, hell, now there are.’

  Watching the Boxers move on, the rescue party lay low until almost dark, then Zychov got them on their feet and they set off once more. Shantu came up at last, a small rural town whose smells were those of a great feudal village. Outside the gate was a row of hovels built of dried mud, so dilapidated they looked as though a good shove would lay the lot flat. The town walls, old, crenellated and twelve feet thick, were topped with weeds and nettles. Swinging right, they came to the Mission.

  It was a straggle of buildings built round a central courtyard and, as they approached, they saw figures appearing. Then children began to run towa
rds them, shouting with delight. As they reached the gate, eager hands reached out to greet them. The missionaries were mostly American Baptists, but there were a few Anglicans and a few French Catholics standing aloof, as though they disapproved of something that was not the True Church. Almost without exception, they were dressed in drab Chinese clothes, both the men and women wearing trousers, and their quarters seemed to match their clothes for cheerlessness. The few small rooms seemed for the most part to be only for sleeping and everybody lived in a huge communal room which, judging by the blackboard at one end, was used during the day as a school.

  An old man with a thin white beard like a Chinese and wearing a conical straw hat greeted them. ‘We’re delighted to see you,’ he said. ‘Did you meet the messengers we sent?’

  It was clear they had stood innocent men in front of the firing squad and they all avoided looking at him, all trying to shuffle off the feeling of guilt. The old man didn’t ask questions and gestured to the door.

  ‘You must come in and rest,’ he offered.

  ‘There is no time,’ Zychov said. ‘We must leave at once.’

  The old man’s eyebrows rose. ‘But surely you’ll take tea and something to eat? We haven’t much, but we can provide a meal.’

  ‘Quickly then. And while we eat you must prepare to leave.’

  ‘We have the oxcarts ready packed.’

  ‘No carts.’ Zychov chopped a refusal with his hand. ‘Too slow. Just what you carry on your backs.’

  ‘But we have our books, the children’s belongings. We can’t leave them behind.’

  Zychov paused, his eyes moving nervously, then he swung round to the men behind him. ‘Form up’ he said. ‘We leave at once. They don’t wish to be rescued.’

  Willie’s jaw dropped and he saw Frisbee was looking startled, too. He had always thought Zychov a perfect example of his country’s decadent army. He wore scent with his little waxed moustache and liked to wear his short-peaked cap cocked heavily over one eye. His present determination seemed based on a desire to get back to the shelter of the Legations as quickly as possible.

  ‘You can’t go.’ The old man’s voice was a wail and Willie saw the faces behind him go blank.

  ‘We go,’ Zychov said. ‘You have one half-hour and then we leave.’

  A babble of voices rose and another old man in the soutane of a Catholic priest pushed forward and a fierce discussion started, the more practical among the missionaries obviously arguing for immediate evacuation, the older, more ardently religious arguing for remaining. For a moment Willie thought they were going to start fighting and wondered who would win. Then his eye caught the women and he began to study them with interest, wondering what sort of people could give up homes and everything a woman cherished to live in a place like this for the doubtful joy of teaching religion to the Chinese, who were largely indifferent anyway. For the most part they were a dreary lot, so that he began to wonder if they’d opted for the life they lived because they’d never been able to see a future for themselves elsewhere, then, among them, he spotted one face that seemed animated and attractive, small and heart-shaped, surrounded by straight black hair so that she looked almost Chinese.

  He was still watching the girl when more people pushed forward to join the argument and eventually the first old man shrugged and turned to Zychov.

  ‘We will go,’ he said. ‘But first you must give us time to cook food to take with us. There are children to consider. We need bread and meat.’

  Zychov didn’t budge from his decision. He looked more nervous than ever. ‘Half an hour,’ he said.

  The old man threw up his hands. ‘We will be ready,’ he said.

  The column seemed to cover a quarter of a mile of the road. Zychov led the way, with half a dozen men, then the refugees, first the Roman Catholics, then the Anglicans, then the Baptists – all of them making sure they kept a small space between their own group and the other denominations, as though they were afraid they might be defiled by coming into contact. On either side at intervals Zychov had placed men with rifles and the rear was brought up by Frisbee, Willie and four other men.

  As they left, there was a lot of weeping by the Baptists, who seemed to feel they were suffering a great loss by abandoning the comfortless mission. Willie couldn’t quite see why. In front of him was the group led by the old man with the thin beard, then a whole host of men and women dragging along wailing children. The rear and flanks were covered by young men, none of them, Willie had to admit, terribly strapping specimens. Half of them wore glasses and they looked half-starved, as if they had been sustained more by their beliefs than the food they’d eaten, and none of them was armed. Among them were a few women, all of them dressed in the ugly Chinese garments, all carrying bags on their backs containing their belongings, which, judging by the size of the bags, didn’t amount to a great deal.

  Trudging across the empty plain, trailing a cloud of yellow dust, they made their slow way north-east towards Peking. The plain remained empty and nobody from the distant villages took the trouble to investigate the exodus. Once a lone horseman, riding a skinny nag, appeared. As he passed the guides who had led them from Peking to Shantu, he stopped and spoke to them. There was a hurried high-pitched jabbering.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Frisbee said.

  ‘Asking what won the 2.30,’ Willie suggested.

  ‘They’re asking,’ a voice said, ‘where we came from and where we’re going.’

  Willie turned and found himself facing the girl he’d noticed at the mission. She was small and slight, with a face which at that moment was streaked through the dust which lay on her skin with the smudge marks where she had tried to wipe away the sweat.

  ‘You speak the lingo?’ Frisbee asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The girl had a light musical voice and Willie found himself wondering what she’d look like with a clean skin, her hair done in a proper fashion, and dressed in pretty clothes. She smiled and it lit up the small pert face. ‘I learned it. It’s not much good trying to teach them Christianity when you can’t speak their language. It’s bad enough as it is. The missionary societies have given them five different names for God. They already had two before we came, then the Jesuits produced another, and the Protestants a fourth, and finally we found a fifth to win more converts than anyone else.’ She seemed to think it all rather amusing and pathetic.

  ‘Did it win ’em?’ Willie asked.

  Again the wide smile came. ‘No,’ she said bluntly.

  Later that day, the horseman on the sorry nag passed them again, going the other way. Willie noticed that he waved to the guides, then he pushed on ahead, followed by the usual cloud of dust.

  Towards dusk they reached the fringe of the stretch of wood where they had rested on the way from Peking. Zychov was still nervous about the long tail-back of the column, and he trotted up and down, urging everybody to close up. But it was impossible, because by this time the older men and women were growning tired and were lagging back, and the younger people were anxious to push ahead.

  ‘Them woods is dark,’ Frisbee said, staring about him. ‘I don’t like the look of ’em.’

  Willie noticed that once again Zychov had widened the distance between himself and the rest of the column and his head was turning from left to right.

  ‘He’s worried,’ Frisbee observed.

  ‘He’s probably looking for a chance to bolt,’ Willie said.

  ‘Perhaps that’s why he had those two guys shot. So he could grab their ponies.’

  The road was stony and walking was difficult, and as they approached the woods the girl who had talked to them about religion gave a little cry and stopped.

  ‘Come on, Miss,’ Frisbee said. ‘Don’t hang back.’

  ‘I’ll catch up,’ she said. ‘I’ve wrenched my ankle. It’ll be all right in a moment.’

  Frisbee frowned and set off again, chivvying on the laggards. It was hot and they had discarded some of their heavy clothing and were carryin
g it draped over their packs. Willie stopped, looking back. The girl was sitting at the side of the road near the trees rubbing her ankle. She looked small against the vast background of the countryside.

  ‘Come on,’ he urged.

  ‘You go on.’

  He frowned, nervous. ‘I’ll wait for you,’ he said.

  He stared about him uneasily. The approaching darkness made the woods look evil and threatening. The girl was still rubbing her ankle, and now had her shoe off, massaging her foot.

  ‘Come on,’ he snarled.

  ‘I’m coming.’

  As she spoke, a shot rang out, then another, then a whole fusillade. An old woman at the tail of the column fell on her face and Willie saw that the back of her shapeless garment was covered with blood.

  As he swung round, wondering what was happening, he saw Boxers emerging from the trees. One moment the countryside was quiet then suddenly it was alive with them. They were on foot and many of them had rifles, but there were also gingals, huge two-man blunderbusses which fired from a wooden stand. Red ribbons fluttering in the warm breeze, they were advancing towards them in a ragged skirmishing line, as though attacking an armed column. Then, without warning, they dropped to their knees and raised their arms as if praying, before slowly climbing to their feet again and advancing once more. At their head was the man on the horse.

  The column of refugees had closed in on itself, the women shrieking with terror, the men shouting orders and instructions. A high-pitched voice rose above the wailing and there was an unsteady rattle of fire. Kneeling, Willie fired off half a dozen shots and he saw several of the Boxers fall, then as he reached for more ammunition, the Boxers charged in a howling mob, brandishing their weapons.

  As they did so, Willie saw Zychov put his heels into his pony’s flanks and it broke into a gallop, racing across the plain away from the column.

  ‘Come back, you rotten sod!’ he yelled.

  Zychov’s sergeant, seeing his officer vanish, had swung round and begun to hurry back to the column. The Boxer on the horse had also kicked his horse into a gallop and was crossing Zychov’s front. As they crashed into each other, Zychov’s hand, holding a pistol, lifted. There was a flash and a puff of smoke and the Boxer went backwards over his horse’s tail.