‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tom. ‘I was wrong to doubt you.’ He clapped him on the back ‘You’d better defend the kitchen door. See how the servants are getting on, while you’re about it. Don’t want the cook panicking and letting the enemy in. When you hear me firing you fire too. Aim low.’
Airton was ashamed that he had forgotten the servants till now. Quickly he ran the length of the corridor. He found Ah Sun crouching under the big kitchen table and Ah Lee standing by the boarded-up door his chopper at the ready. A delighted expression filled the cook’s face when he saw that the doctor was holding a rifle. ‘Oh, Master,’ he said, ‘so you have joined the army of Jesus too! We will die together and go straight to Paradise.’
‘I hope we won’t be doing that just yet,’ said Airton, fitting a magazine to his rifle, and taking his position by the door.
It was the longest five minutes he had ever waited. Through the narrow firing-hole he saw the Boxers anticking on his lawn. He was surprised to find that he felt no hatred for them. If anything, they reminded him of the puppet displays of mythological heroes in the market, and the image of the fairground remained. He remembered the country shows of his youth. A part of him told him that when the time came it would be as easy to shoot at these mannikins as it had been to shoot coconuts off a stall. Another part of him saw the irony: here was a so-called man of God ready to inflict death on his fellow man—but then, almost to his own shame, another more pleasurable fantasy engaged him. How appropriate this was for a lover of western penny dreadfuls. He, Airton, the great romantic, had finally found his place behind the covered wagons of his imagination ready to defend his family against the redskins. The persistent thumping of the drums might have been Indian tom-toms.
Over the noise he heard a faint shout. It must be Tom giving the order to get ready. He squeezed his eyes to the sights, concentrating on a large figure in a tiger-skin costume brandishing an axe. His finger started its gentle pressure on the trigger. ‘Dear Lord, forgive me,’ the silent words formed.
He heard running feet, and Caterina’s screaming voice. ‘Hold fire, Doctor,’ she cried. ‘Mr Cabot has told me to tell you to hold fire.’
He pulled back, startled. ‘But why, Caterina?’
‘It’s Major Lin. He has come with his troopers.’
Merciful God, he thought, the US cavalry after all, and the next thing he heard was the welcome sound of horses on the lawn.
* * *
‘The Mandarin has promised you protection, and that will be given to you,’ said Major Lin coldly. He was sitting astride his horse by the front door of the house. Behind him his troopers were fanned out keeping an eye on the Boxer braves who were now assembled in loose formations, watching in sinister silence. Airton, Fielding and Tom were standing on the porch holding tightly to their rifles. Out of the corner of his eye, Airton could make out Bowers’s weapon protruding from his firing-hole. The whole scene was lit up garishly by the blaze of the hospital at the bottom of the hill. ‘On what surety do we have that?’ he asked.
‘My surety,’ said Lin. ‘There is no other.’
‘How can we believe you when your men allow these Boxers to remain armed after they have burned my hospital and killed my patients?’
‘How we deal with the Boxers is a Chinese matter. It is unfortunate about your hospital. No doubt one day you will be compensated for the loss of your property. Is compensation not what you foreigners usually demand?’ Lin’s tone was mocking. ‘As for the patients inside, I understand that they were Chinese. So that is also a Chinese matter and none of your concern.’
‘I had a responsibility for them,’ expostulated Airton. ‘Those men butchered them.’
‘You are wasting my time, Doctor. I am offering protection only to foreigners—under the terms of the extraterritoriality treaty.’ Again there was sarcasm in his tone. ‘Do you wish to hear my terms?’
‘Terms?’ said Airton. ‘Go on.’
‘First, you will hand to me all the weapons you are holding in this house. My men will search the house to make sure that none are concealed. We do not want any accidents to occur to yourselves or others. You will not need weapons because my men will be protecting you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Second, the protection I offer applies only to the foreigners in the house. Any Chinese you are concealing here must leave. At once.’
‘Well, that’s unacceptable. Is there any more?’
‘You will undertake to obey the law that has been imposed in this emergency, and therefore will stay in this building—which is being protected—until further notice.’
‘That’s all?’
‘That’s all. My men will bring you provisions on a weekly basis. You may use the well in the garden once a day under supervision of my soldiers.’
‘And if we do not accept your terms?’
‘Then you will be treated like malefactors and any infringement of our emergency laws will be punished.’
‘I see,’ said Airton. ‘Well, your terms are not acceptable—and as you have noticed, we have guns and you have guns so it seems as if there is to be a stand-off. At least I can undertake that any attempts you make to enforce your so-called emergency laws will be costly to you. Thank you, Major Lin, but we prefer to protect ourselves.’
Lin raised his arm in a signal to his men. After a moment Airton and the others saw the Boxers by the gate step aside. ‘Oh, my God,’ whispered Tom, ‘he’s brought his old cannons from the walls.’
They watched in shocked silence as the string of mules drawing the heavy field guns were whipped and pulled up the slope.
‘I think that my guns are bigger than yours, Doctor,’ said Major Lin. ‘Do you wish me to give you a demonstration?’
‘Checkmate,’ muttered Fielding.
‘No, Fielding,’ hissed the doctor. ‘He wants us to hand over Ah Lee and Ah Sun. We can’t do that.’
‘We can’t fight artillery.’
‘We’ll have to. I will not … I will not … I cannot hand over my servants to be slaughtered. Let me talk to him. Major Lin,’ he reverted to Chinese, ‘we agree to all your conditions except one. We will not hand over our Chinese servants to you.’
Major Lin made a pretence of yawning. ‘Then I withdraw my offer of protection,’ he said. ‘Good evening.’ He drew up his reins.
‘Listen, Major Lin. Please, I beg you. I have a memorial here, yes, here, you see.’ With fumbling fingers he pulled from his jacket pocket the letter for the Mandarin. ‘Please. Please give this to the Mandarin and let us—let us for the moment leave this matter of the Chinese in our house until he has made a considered decision. All the other terms we agree to. Even the weapons, but please consider. In the name of humanity.’
Major Lin examined the envelope uninterestedly, then slid it into his saddlebag. ‘I already have my orders from the Mandarin,’ he said.
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll pay you for them. A ransom. Yes, a ransom. I have money. Here.’ Airton fumbled for his pocketbook. With his other hand he grasped at Lin’s bridle in a desperate attempt to keep him from going. Suddenly he heard a familiar voice behind him. ‘Master, please let us pass.’ Ah Lee and Ah Sun were standing on the porch, bundles of possessions under their arms.
‘Ah Lee.’ He had tried to put anger into his voice, but it cracked. ‘Get back into the house. That’s an order. Ah Sun. Tell him.’
Ah Lee was smiling, although tears were running down his cheeks as they were also shining on Ah Sun’s wrinkled features. ‘Master velly stubborn,’ he said, in his pidgin English. ‘Think he velly good to poor Ah Lee and Ah Sun. But Master also velly mean man.’ He shook his head comically. ‘Velly low wages. Scottishman, always mean. Ah Lee belong better job, better master. Maybe find cook job in Heaven hiyah? Makee bacon flied egg for Jesus. He velly good master. Ah Lee Ah Sun velly, velly happy belong Jesus.’
Ah Lee put down his bundle and embraced Airton. ‘Lemember ol’ fliend sometime?’ he said simply. ‘Bette
r this way,’ he added in Chinese. ‘Look after Missy Nellie and Master George and Miss Jenny,’ he continued, in pidgin. ‘You have velly good children. Ah Sun and I, we think they like own glandchildren. Goodbye, dear Master.’
Ah Sun, sobbing, clasped Airton’s hands. She was too moved to speak, as was the doctor, who stood indecisively as the two servants left him and made their way slowly towards the gate. ‘No,’ he roared, attempting to run after them but Fielding held him and Major Lin moved his horse to block his way.
One of the Boxers stepped forward as the two old servants approached. With shock Airton recognised the features of his major-domo, Zhang Erhao, although he was now wearing a turban and full Boxer regalia. He made an elaborate bow to Ah Lee, as if welcoming him to their throng. Ah Lee spat in his face. The Boxer ranks closed round them and Airton could see them no more.
Lin’s soldiers searched the house efficiently and gathered their weapons—there was only a minor disturbance when Nellie barred the door to Helen Frances’s room and had to be pushed aside. Shortly afterwards the troop left, leaving sentries at the doors. The Boxers also dispersed, although the drumbeats thumped on into the night. The foreigners gathered in the Airtons’ sitting room, sinking into the armchairs and sofas as if they wanted to hide from themselves. No one had anything to say. After a while Septimus Millward came into the room, followed by his wife and children. He surveyed the others quietly. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘We’re in the hands of the Lord. Don’t you think that it’s time for a prayer?’ In his fine baritone he began to sing: ‘Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation…’
One by one the others joined in. They took some comfort in the hymns and prayers, which Septimus intoned till the early hours of the morning. Standing over them like a stern Old Testament prophet raising his staff against the forces of chaos, Septimus seemed to have come into his own. It was a reflection of their appalling predicament that, for the first time in anyone’s experience, he did not appear crazed to the other foreigners in this dwindling community.
Outside, the heads of Ah Lee and Ah Sun, mounted on poles by the gateposts, appeared attentive, as if they were straining to listen to the impromptu service in the house. But, in fact, it was only a trick of the air currents being sucked into the fire that still raged in the wreck of the hospital below.
Fourteen
Many of our men appeared to die, but Master Zhang says it is not so for bullets cannot hurt us. Why then has Little Brother not returned?
Christian Mission and Hospital
Shishan, Manchuria, China
Sunday 16 June 1900
My dear James,
It is now four days since the burning of our hospital by the Boxers, and our forced incarceration in our quarters. I have not written earlier because the terrible slaughter of the patients and the servants in my care weighed heavily on me. Yet we have cause for hope.
Every day we see signs that Providence has not abandoned us. Two days ago our enemies were surrounding our house, beating on their drums and taunting us, day and night, with their shouts and chants, performing their hideous dances and rituals on our lawn. They gestured obscenely at us with their weapons, knowing our defencelessness, calling on their gods to bring violence on our heads, and accusing us of diabolical crimes while threatening bloodcurdling retribution. You can imagine the terror of our children who trembled between their sheets while the nightmarish screams tore the night outside. What comfort could we give them, brave little creatures that they are? Only Major Lin’s pickets stood between us and murder, and weak reeds we considered those undisciplined soldiers to be. Yet somehow the crisis passed. Septimus Millward believes that in addition to the pickets from Lin’s cavalry there were also angels with burning swords standing at our door, protecting us. Well, figuratively I suppose there might have been. The Lord saw to it that we came to no harm.
Then yesterday we woke to a strange silence. For the first time in days we could hear the delightful sound of birdsong. For a moment I imagined myself back in our dear little cottage in Dumfries, lying in my old cot listening to the chattering of a summer morning, with sunshine outside and the prospect ahead of a day’s fishing on the burn. Lifting the shutters we saw that the Boxers had indeed gone. The only movement was that of the soldiers yawning as they sat round their breakfast fires.
No explanation was given—the soldiers are under instructions not to speak to us—but in my heart I felt a surge of confidence and thanks. I am convinced that my letter to the Mandarin has now reached him and that he has given the instructions that caused our persecutors to be removed. I do not understand the present politics of Shishan but I assume that the Mandarin is dealing with his problems one at a time, cutting his coat to circumstance. When he has restored peace and order in the city then he will come for us. For the moment he is protecting us as best he can.
My strong good helpmate, Nellie, sends you her love, as do the children, who are now living through their own adventure as exciting as the ones you send them in your book parcels at Christmas. Pray that this one will also have the sort of happy ending that one looks for in such tales! Tell dearest Edmund and Mary, when you visit them at their school, that their parents miss them as ever, and assure them that we are ALL RIGHT!
Tuesday 18 June 1900
The Boxers have not returned. We have been blessed by a third night of calm.
Major Lin has been true to his word at least, as far as provisions of food are concerned. Today we received sacks of rice and vegetables, and three large sides of fresh pork. This will make a welcome change from the monotony of canned bully beef on which we have been subsisting. Fortunately our own larder was only recently stocked, and we have tins of preserved food which, if sparingly used, will last us for more than a month. Nellie is a strict quartermaster, and our meals are of necessity Spartan affairs—but each day she manages to surprise us with some treasure out of her trove. Last night we enjoyed a plum pudding from Fortnum’s, a gift at Christmas from the Gillespies. Herr Fischer poured a drop of brandy over the steaming dessert, and the children made great play of blowing out the lamps so we could enjoy the delicious blue flames when Nellie brought the burning dish ceremoniously to the table.
You can see from this that we remain in good heart. We keep ourselves busy. There is nothing like work to drive away disconsolate thoughts. Nellie has been ingenious in inventing household chores. She has recruited Mr Bowers to be her helper in the kitchen where he supervises the stores. He has labelled and numbered every can of beans! And every measure of cooking oil is marked in his ledger! Sister Caterina, Mrs Millward and two of her daughters are our washerwomen. We have clean sheets every day, not to mention a fresh set of clothing. The house sometimes smells like a laundry! Meanwhile Herr Fischer, with Mr Fielding as his lieutenant, has been placed in charge of polishing and dusting. Fischer approaches the work with Germanic efficiency, holding his feather duster under his arm like a field marshal’s baton. There is not a speck of dust left in the house and the surface of the piano gleams like a mirror. So do the floorboards! Even Tom, who still has difficulty walking, keeps himself occupied polishing the silver. I imagine that no ship-of-the-line could be in such glistening condition as our humble dwelling. There cannot be many other places of enforced confinement in the world that could qualify for entry in the Woman’s World magazine as an Ideal Home!
Septimus Millward and I are the only ones who are excused from these chores. Ever since the extraordinary service he conducted on the night of the Boxers’ arrival Mr Millward has been our pastor. You may find this strange, considering what I have told you about him in the past. Neither has he changed. He is still the deranged fanatic believing in his visions. He is uncompromising, and his sermons—of the old hellfire and fury type, which ordinarily the likes of you and I would go lengths to avoid—do not even border on the lunatic: they go well beyond! Yet there is no questioning the absolute certainty of his faith, and there is something in our present circumstances that make
s such certainty comforting. I find it difficult to explain. Anyway, we tolerate him and, as Dr Fielding said, what else are we to do with him? His preparations for his evening service at least keep him locked in his bedroom out of harm’s way, and also away from his children who, in Nellie’s view, have suffered under his tyranny for far too long.
I am still occupied, of course, with my medical duties, which as you can imagine in our enlarged community keep me as busy as if I were a general practitioner. Besides my two chief patients, Helen Frances and Tom, I have to deal with any number of small ailments from burns to headaches, and one of the gentlemen (I will not mention which) has a nasty case of piles! It is fortunate that my medical bag was with me in the house when we became besieged and that there was a whole box of stores that I had not sent down to the hospital, including—of paramount importance—a supply of morphine. Not that I need so much as I did. Up to now there has been no need to restart Helen Frances on the drug. The poor creature is now almost cured of her addiction. She has suffered terribly and there were days when I despaired of her recovery and of being able to save her child. You remember when you once visited me in the hospital in Edinburgh? I showed you patients fighting addiction, so you know the bestial state to which they succumb at the peak of their withdrawal. There are still weals on the girl’s wrists and ankles from her struggles when I had to tie her to the bed. It is no fault of hers. She has been the victim of a terrible invasion of her body and mind. The perpetrator was Mr Manners, who seduced her, then introduced her to opium. A terrible crime, yet I should not speak ill of the dead. He is now beyond worldly punishment. And his end was a cruel one.
Thank goodness that Helen Frances is young and strong. I am glad to say she is now recovered to the point that she is eating normally and putting on weight. There is even something of a return of her former beauty—though I doubt whether the sadness that now lines her face will ever entirely leave her. Strangely, it gives her an ethereal look, a sort of haunted languor, which is not unattractive and reminds me of a Pre-Raphaelite painting, Mariana at the Moated Grange, perhaps. The parallel is not inappropriate.
The Palace of Heavenly Pleasure Page 53