by Kane, Clare
I do not consider myself brave, only unafraid. It has been both a privilege and a curse to witness much war over the course of my career. In chronicling the misadventures of the British in Burma, in Africa, in every hot, uninhabitable and exploitable God-forsaken corner of the Earth, I have become quite accustomed to violence and the bloody traces left in its wake. I remain composed in the face of almost any danger, knowing that every body ends the same: rigid and lifeless, crawling with flies. And so it was without hesitation that I took one of Edward’s horses and crossed the Legation Quarter at a quick trot. On the way I passed Barnaby and Nina. They were walking together in the shaded area beside the chapel, chatting animatedly as Nina twirled an ivory parasol between her fingers. I waved to the pair, but did not break to speak with them. I galloped across the racecourse in the direction of Fengtai station, where an hour later I encountered a small hell. The station was ablaze, the ground dredged up, splinters of torn railway line cleft under our horses’ hooves. Distraught villagers streamed around me in the thick smoke, their curses deafening. Huozai! Fire! Calamity! I found Edward watching the scene and came to a stop beside him.
“They’ve really done it now,” he said.
“And so close to Peking,” I replied. “Might we still believe ourselves safe in the capital?”
One Boxer charged out of the mist towards us, wielding a long, curved sword. He thrust the blade towards us, close enough that I might observe the rusted blood that stained its crested edges, near enough my flesh that I could imagine its cool, deadly impact. The Boxer was young, his eyes glinted with conviction. Slowly he waved the sword in hypnotic circles before us, slicing silently through the air before eventually retreating, watching us still with narrowed eyes. Our horses neighed wildly, shifting beneath us. I have said that I was unafraid, and that is true, but I was no Boxer: I did not believe myself immortal. The infernal tableau spread before us was beyond the resolve of two well-intentioned British men, and so Edward and I set back towards Peking, hoping to raise the powers of the few military men stationed around the city.
I had been writing about the Boxers for some months by then, sending telegraphs to London that detailed their practices of spirit possession, sorcery and martial arts in as much depth as the medium of the foreign correspondent permits, and reporting on the sporadic killings of missionaries across the northern expanse of China, but this was my first direct experience of the warriors. The Boxers had long fascinated me with their visceral, unapologetic response to foreign expansion. While the Manchu government crumbled quietly in the face of foreign aggression, sinking gradually beneath the pressure of lopsided treaties and economic muscle, these peasant boys had organized themselves into ragtag militias scattered across the parched countryside. If they hadn’t been quite so set upon murdering us all, I might have quite admired their pluck.
As Edward and I entered the Legation Quarter, I recognized the floral splash of Nina’s parasol by the tennis courts and called out to her. She walked with determination, taking quick, sharp steps, and did not turn to greet me.
“Nina!” I tried again. “Stop. It’s not safe for you to walk alone.”
Edward nodded to me and I quickened my pace, leaving him behind and quickly catching up to Nina.
“I have just come from Fengtai,” I said, and finally she turned to face me. “There has been a Boxer attack. It is not safe for you to walk alone. Come, let me see you home.”
Nina frowned, considered this offer.
“Oh, fine,” she said, resigned in tone. “I suppose it is rather hot to walk.”
“Where is Mr George?” I asked as I stepped down from the horse, and lifted Nina into the saddle.
“How should I know?” she replied.
“Well, you were with him earlier. He ought not to have left you alone on a day like today.”
I pulled on the reins and walked alongside Nina. We returned to the Ward household in comfortable silence; I knew that Nina, like her father, preferred to dwell in the realm of thoughts, and imagined that whatever had passed between her and Barnaby George would now be subject to intense scrutiny in her mind. Always encouraged by her father to speak her thoughts, Nina often appeared capricious in her opinions, and an observer of her character could fall under the erroneous impression that she was wont to speak without consideration. In fact, Nina liked to weigh new information until her opinions were so well-defined, so unassailable in their logic, that she might never be persuaded away from her stance on a matter. She was irritated, irked by Mr George, that much she was willing to unburden upon me, but her disinclination to speak more suggested something unusual had occurred during their time together that afternoon, some turn of events for which she had no readily-prepared response. She smiled kindly while guarding her wordlessness, and I knew that she would share whatever troubled her when she was ready, and not a moment before.
I accompanied Nina through the red-painted door that marked the entrance to the Wards’ courtyard home. Together we crossed the wide, breezy patio and Nina breathed a consoling sigh. We walked towards the drawing room, where Nicholas reclined in an armchair, a thick book in his lap.
“Mr George asked me to marry him,” Nina said, taking a seat opposite her father. “I refused.”
Surprised, I stood between father and daughter, watching as Nicholas slowly removed his reading spectacles to regard his daughter. Nina, after her moments of quiet reflection upon the horse, was spirited now. Her cheeks were flushed a rosy pink and she met her father’s eye with absolute confidence.
“You refused him?” Nicholas said with a wry smile. “I had a suspicion you might.”
“Why did you suggest he speak with me if you already knew what was in my heart?” Nina protested. “You could have spared us all much embarrassment.” She looked to me. “Does that not strike you as most unthinking of my father, Mr Scott?”
“Never have I met someone who thinks more than your father, Nina,” I said, settling myself into a chair by Nicholas’ side.
“I suggested he talk to you because as much as I enjoy postulating as to what may exist in that mind of yours, Nina, you remain a mystery even to me,” Nicholas said. “I only wished you to have the chance to explore his proposal yourself.”
Nina stood, circled the room on restless feet. She enjoyed an unusually frank relationship with her father as for most of her life they had been bound together without anyone to intrude upon their exclusive intimacy. In recent years Nicholas Ward had acquired a woman, a former concubine called Pei, who rounded out the small family as a replacement wife and mother, but who had not disturbed the unusually equal balance of that unconventional father-daughter connection.
“But the very idea of getting married now is quite ridiculous,” Nina said. “And what’s more, he is to move to England shortly. He suggested I might go with him!” She walked untiringly, fingers winding around themselves. “He wants to stop by later this summer before he returns to England for good. To see if I have changed my mind.”
“And do you think you might?” I asked.
“I doubt that very much. He was quite cruel when I refused him.” Nina stopped before a scroll decorated with sloping calligraphy. “I have told him that he may come to Peking in the summer if he wishes to see the city in its hottest months, but to expect nothing of me. China is my home and I have no desire to leave it.”
“Oh, Nina,” her father said with a gentle laugh. “Sometimes I think perhaps it is you who is cruel.”
Pei entered the drawing room then, taking small, hushed steps on bound feet. Nina told her of the proposal, and as they spoke in the convivial tones of the informal Mandarin that I had learned in my first months in the country, crossing the mountains of Shantung with a parade of coolies in tow, I took the opportunity to describe my experience at Fengtai to Nicholas.
“I am not in the least surprised,” Nicholas said, his voice inked with disappointment. �
�It astounds me that the foreign powers have continued unabashed with these plans in the countryside, believing against all evidence that the development of such technologies will provoke no reaction amongst the Chinese.”
“Nicholas, you know as well as I do that our leaders consider that they help the Chinese. The majority will laud the medicinal benefits of opium given half the chance.”
Nicholas shook his head with reconciled sorrow and we returned once more to the women’s conversation.
“You are a strong girl,” Pei was saying admiringly. “But you must be careful. Love touches everyone in the end. Look, it even happened to me.” She walked behind Nicholas, and stroked his white hair with tenderness.
“My dear Pei,” Nina replied. “I will do my best to avoid being touched by love for quite some time yet.”
II
The danger in Peking grew undeniably, tangibly real in the days following Barnaby George’s ill-fated proposal. The Boxers, emboldened by their successful destruction at Fengtai and their increased tally of felled foreign devils, intensified their activities. They had reached the outer edges of Peking, and by night we heard them circling the city, calling in low and liturgical tone: Sha! Sha! Kill! Kill! That single, chilling syllable was to become the drumbeat to our cracked, dry summer, each cry accompanied by discordant clashing of drums and piping of flutes. The very real threat of the Boxer presence was further intensified by gruesome rumors that grew more outlandish with each retelling, stories of priests beheaded on street corners and milky-skinned babies snatched out of cots by night. It became impossible to keep a level head amid such feverish irrationality and a general hysteria set in amongst the foreign population of the city.
Claude MacDonald, the British Minister, decided the best course of action was to invite all British nationals to the relative safety of the Legation Quarter. The British Legation, that tiny area of Peking under the auspices of a fluttering Union Jack and nestled alongside the missions of a handful of other nations, habitually housed only a few dozen people, mostly in government accommodation, but MacDonald promised that residents would accommodate their compatriots at this time of great need. It did not surprise me to hear that Nicholas Ward had politely declined the offer, saying he saw no reason to leave his home.
It was on one of those cacophonous, sleepless nights that I saw Oscar Fairchild again. I had taken to stopping by the Grand Hotel before returning home each evening, knowing that Hilde would always provide a generous serving of whisky while Edward would pass on intelligence gleaned from diplomatic and commercial conversations overheard in the dining room. The three of us were discussing the early departure of an American couple visiting from Shanghai and Edward’s concerns that his accounts for the month of June would fall short of previsions, when Oscar crossed the lobby with a close group of secretaries and trade officials. He separated from his colleagues and hastened to join me at the bar.
“Please do take a seat,” I said, surprised by his attention. “Though I shan’t be staying long.”
It was in my professional interest to cultivate good relations with anyone close to the nexus of power in Peking, but the toll of the recent days’ turmoil made the idea of engaging in that breed of speech favored by officials - light, inoffensive and incurably dull - vastly unappealing in comparison to the silent company of whisky.
“There is something I wish to discuss with you,” he started. “I know you to be a close friend of Mr Ward. We have invited him to take up residence in the Legation Quarter. I have personally offered rooms in my own residence for him and his daughter, but he refuses to leave his home. I may not know them well, but we are all concerned for the safety of both Mr Ward and Miss Nina. I wondered if you might be able to persuade them to join us in the Legation Quarter.”
I laughed, telling Oscar that unlikely as anyone was to persuade Nicholas Ward of anything, I would pay him a visit on my way home and suggest he give some further thought to the offer. Oscar urged me to tell the Wards that the Chinese had permitted the presence of three hundred soldiers to protect the various nationalities within the Legation Quarter, and they were due to arrive the next day.
“We believe everyone inside the Legation Quarter shall be safe,” he said. “You, of course, are also encouraged to join us here.”
Politely I told Oscar that I preferred to remain in my own accommodation as long as circumstances allowed, but I agreed that we must think of Nina’s welfare. Fairchild rose and bade me good night, waving to Edward Samuels as he left.
“He seems pleasant enough,” Edward said.
“For an official he appears quite human,” I agreed, swirling the last of the amber liquid around my glass.
Finding a rickshaw was more challenging than usual that night, and my courageous driver’s tread fell on silent streets. Doors were bolted, children quietened, stoves unlit, as residents prepared themselves for another night of baleful piping and menacing cries as the Boxers marched closer to the perimeter of the Legation Quarter. The Ward household, however, remained warm and inviting; from the dim hutung I detected the pleasant murmur of conversation, and noted the orange light that seeped around the corners of the vermilion-painted doorway, pooling across the stone steps that led to the neatly-maintained courtyard. Head servant Yang led me to the drawing room, where I found that Nicholas and Nina had received two student interpreters, James Millington and Hugo Lovell. Each year a handful of young men was dispatched to Peking to learn the basics of Chinese before being posted to a more lucrative position in one of the country’s commercial centres. I was surprised by their presence; Nicholas had never displayed any prior interest in these novices of the Chinese language, and I doubted Nina had previously made their acquaintance.
“Good evening,” I said from the doorway. “I hope I do not interrupt.”
“Never,” Nicholas said. “Please, take a seat. These two young men came to me with questions about the Boxers. You ought to speak to Mr Scott, boys. He has seen this many times before.”
“The Boxers also bring me here,” I said. “You shall be a popular man if they carry on this way.”
“And you wonder why I have always been suspicious of popular individuals,” Nicholas said lightly. “Go on, Alistair.”
I repeated Oscar Fairchild’s invitation and suggested Nicholas reconsider the idea of moving to the Legation Quarter.
“The Boxers are growing more confident,” I said. “You cannot be sure that you will be safe here.”
“I absolutely agree,” Hugo Lovell said quickly. “We have already suggested such a course of action to Mr Ward.”
“Three decades I have lived in this house,” Nicholas said. “No harm has come to me yet, unless you consider that inflicted by my wife.”
The two young men smiled uncomfortably, unsure whether to laugh.
“Please, Nicholas, think of Nina,” I said.
“Mr Scott, you know Father and I are not enemies of the Chinese. What would anyone want with us? We are not missionaries, we are not officials, we are just ordinary people,” Nina said. “Ordinary people who like China, who speak the language, who have never built a railway line or erected a church in our lives.”
“You are not ordinary people to the Boxers, Nina. You are the enemy. In fact,” I turned to Hugo and James, “I imagine you two young men ought to leave soon. It’s rather late.”
“How can they become future leaders of empire if they’re scared of a Boxer or two?” Nina said, gently mocking.
James Millington nodded fiercely.
“I am not afraid,” he said. “And we wish to hear more from Mr Ward. Mr George did not lie when he said that Mr Ward was perhaps the world’s leading expert on the Chinese and the Manchu ruling class. Already he has explained the ambivalence of the Empress Dowager to us. Should she protect the foreigners and risk the wrath of the Boxers? A most serious conundrum.”
“Well, in that ca
se I shall take my leave,” I said, rising. “I have spent most of the day thinking of nothing but the Boxers.” I took a last look at Nicholas. “Please consider the offer. You would be far safer in the Legation Quarter.”
“And you, Mr Scott? Shall you move to the Legation Quarter?” Nina asked.
“I have thought about it,” I lied. I would not admit my foolhardiness to young Nina, but I was resistless to story, and a secret, heedless part of myself willed the Boxers to my door, wished their destruction to my street, so that I might see it, and survive long enough to record that historic sight never to be witnessed by men of prudence and providence. “And I shall not rest until I know you are safe there.”
The morning carried with it the unmistakable smell of war. The station at Machiapu was crowded; curious locals jostled with imperial officials who had crossed south of the Tartar Wall to await the arrival of the troops sent to safeguard the Legation Quarter. Oscar Fairchild had secured a first-line vantage point, and I stood beside him as we waited for the incoming train, noticing the crease in his forehead and the muted tone of his conversation.
“I suppose China has proved rather a difficult post,” I suggested.
He shook his head.
“Every post has its challenges. India certainly was not without its difficulties. I’m sorry that you have detected my lack of animation, it is rather a personal matter. My wife’s father has fallen ill and she has left for the coast. I suppose it is best for her to be in England at a time like this,” he said.