Dragons in Shallow Waters

by Kane, Clare

  The servant entered the room and handed Nina a towel. I held the glass of brandy as she dried her face in the folds of the towel, running it over her damp hair before returning it to the servant’s outstretched hands. She shivered with the first sip of brandy, passing the rest undesired to me.

  “Miss Ward, I offer you my fullest and my frankest apologies,” Phoebe continued. “I never ought to have placed you in such danger. I can only hope you and your father may forgive my foolishness.”

  “Please, Mrs Franklin, you were not to know. It is the fault only of those men…”

  “Yes, they had been drinking, I believe. At least one might hope that their governance by the flesh was a temporary failing only.”

  “Yes,” Nina said. “The girls were frightened, but courageous. They have seen and survived much worse. I regret, however, that such a thing should happen to them in their place of sanctuary.”

  “Well, I heard they were Russian soldiers. It does not greatly surprise me; they are given to uncouth behavior and are particularly fond of drinking,” Phoebe said.

  “Actually, Mrs Franklin, they were not only Russians. I saw an American,” Nina said.

  Phoebe raised her hand.

  “Enough, dear child. I do not wish you to relive those terrible moments; think of it no more. Tomorrow you shall stay here where you are safe and you need not return to Prince Su’s palace. It was folly to take you there. You have been of wonderful service, Miss Ward, but we must do all we can to keep you away from such dangers.”

  “No!” Nina said with bitter vehemence. “No, no, Mrs Franklin. I must return; the girls expect me.”

  “It is simply impossible, Miss Ward,” Phoebe said calmly and with authority. “Imagine if you had been less fortunate this evening. I wished to protect you, instead I placed you in grave danger.” Phoebe turned to me with curt smile. “How very glad I am that Mr Scott was able to bring you home safely, but we cannot always rely on him to be there.”

  “Please, Mrs Franklin.” Nina reached for missionary’s hand. “I am so grateful for all you have done for me. I wish only to return to the girls at the palace.”

  “It is out of the question, Miss Ward. Now, to bed. You are drenched, child, and you must rest.”

  Nina nodded without feeling. I placed my arm around her shoulder and guided her towards the door, felt her frame weak and despairing. As we departed Phoebe said in tranquil tones: “Let the Lord be your light, child.”

  At that, Nina struggled free of me, surged towards the stairs and ascended them rapidly, did not look back.

  Nicholas’ voice called out to her from the top of the stairs and I saw my friend come into view in his long linen pajamas, a lamp flickering in his left hand. Nina ran towards him as a little girl, skipping the final steps to throw herself into his embrace.

  “Nina, you are well, you are well,” he said.

  “I am fine, Father,” she said.

  “You are so very strong, my girl,” he said. “So very strong, but not invincible. We must keep you safe.”

  He led her away then, and the landing fell black. I lifted the unconsumed brandy to my lips, swilled it until my tongue numbed, and let it tumble, welcome down my throat. I placed the empty glass upon a lacquer cabinet in the hallway and stepped once more into the night, impenetrable, tenebrous, terrible. The rain lashed my face and the gloom perplexed my steps as I hurried under that canopy of bullets to the familiar environs of the Grand, hastening gladly now towards the narrow proportions of my bed, where in sleep at least I might dream of a world in which all men were not quite as bad as one another.

  X

  The storms had cleared and the firing of the night before had stopped, and yet when I opened the window in the first blush of morning, the smell of the city, rotting, sweet and fleshy, caused me to gag. Wearily I looked to the street below, remembered how majestically ordered the Legation Quarter had once appeared; manicured, fine and unutterably dull, an aseptic town square struggling nobly against the vibrancy of the city that surrounded it. Now the quarter hummed, whined with humanity, with the dissatisfaction of existence in all its bleakest, rawest forms, its streets stained, embarrassed by the blood of many nations. A knock at the door roused me from my dismal view. Edward, a cup of coffee in his hand, stepped into the room.

  “Hilde made this for you.”

  A gratifying sip filled not only my mouth but also my nostrils, and the bitter, potent scent of the drink allowed me to ignore momentarily the waft of despair that passed through the window.

  “I heard about the Su palace,” Edward ventured. “Terrible business. The young Miss Ward was rather upset, I imagine?”

  “As is to be expected. Do you know, Edward, that I cannot remember now, not really, the precise moment in which I first I recognized the true, disappointing nature of mankind. It must have been in Afghanistan, I suppose. I do recall, however, that nothing ever felt quite the same once that terrible discovery had been made. I imagine Miss Ward experiences the very same sentiment now.”

  Edward nodded, cleared his throat.

  “I ask because I have just seen her by the chapel. She has drawn quite a crowd.”

  “A crowd?” I set down the empty coffee cup.

  “She is…well, she is raving, one might say.”

  Hurriedly I navigated the narrow circuit of the Legation Quarter, that familiar maze of walls and barricades. I avoided the eyes of the young men who stood guard around its borders, recoiling at the sight of their young hands wrapped around their guns, instinctively wondering if the same fingers had wrenched at the wrists of Nina’s students only half a day prior. I came to the pavilions amongst which the chapel stood, the area had become a meeting point of sorts; notices were pasted there when there was news to report, which was not often in those ignorant days. A small crowd had indeed gathered, but they did not read the messages that papered the walls, those old, false promises of safety and a swift end to fighting. No, each of that motley assortment rather had their eyes trained upon an exchange taking place in the sweeping shadow of the pavilions, a terse dialogue between Nina, her expression savage, hunted, her complexion grey and sleepless, anger mottling her cheeks, and a European man whose unsavory countenance was distantly familiar to me. His hair had grown long and unkempt, and the hunger of the past weeks accentuated his sunken, angular frame, highlighting the unpleasantly keen angles of his face.

  “Forgive me, Miss. I spoke only in jest.”

  The man had an obscure accent that suggested much movement and few roots. This type of character, fully surrendered to the absolute dissolution possible only thousands of miles from every reminder of one’s personal history, was not unusual in China, though such men were found with greater frequency in the footloose port cities than in the more restrictive confines of respectable Peking society. With practiced tranquility he lifted a pipe to his lips.

  “In jest?” Nina cried. “Tell me, sir, what witticisms one might make with regards to terrified, weeping orphans, wrenched from their homes, at last in a place of safety, threatened once more by the very men mandated to protect them?”

  Nina was a tiger in a trap; righteously she raged, but defeat and impotence were plain in the restrained volume of her speech, in the constrained bearing of her frame, in the small step of surrender she took backwards from the man.

  “Yet it strikes a man as cruel, you see, to hide the most ravishing young ladies in one place and not to allow us so much as a glance.” The man laughed, inhaled from his pipe with satisfaction.

  “Sir.” I pushed to the front of the crowd, displacing a Japanese diplomat from his position of privileged viewing. The nature of the disagreement I only vaguely understood; clearly Nina spoke of events at the Su mansion, but what words had birthed the conflict I did not know. I only wished to protect Nina. And yet stepping between the quarreling pair, I experienced something approaching anger to
wards my friend’s daughter. Of course Nina was correct to challenge the man’s unpleasantness, and naturally what had occurred at the palace was repugnant, but equally I wished that she might quieten her character, might tame her spirit for a short time, and allow the scandal, that sullied halo that crowned her, to fade somewhat before drawing fresh attention to herself.

  “Sir,” I began again. “Perhaps we ought to disperse. There are a number of people here to read the notices.” I gestured to the crowd.

  The man sneered, but conceded a step backwards. I hoped the argument might end there, that the gathered onlookers might turn from us and go about their day, but the man’s last comment had so enraged Nina that she charged past me to face him once more, her torso held straight and tense with indignation as she addressed him.

  “Ravishing? They are not ravishing! They have starved, they have crossed the great expanse of this country after losing their families. And you can think of no other word to describe but ravishing!”

  “Forgive me, Miss. I have spoken out of turn.”

  The man shrugged then and walked away, gesturing crudely to the dozen or so people around us, suggesting with exaggerated turns of the wrist and fingers pointed in Nina’s direction that she might be quite mad.

  “Miss Ward.” Oscar stood beside Nina now, and I realized he must have been amongst that crowd. His voice was commanding and false, a performance. “I find you on my way home for tiffin. Let me accompany you to the house.”

  Meekly Nina assented, following Oscar without so much as a glance in my direction, her head bowed to avoid the scrutiny of the diplomats, wives and refugees who had witnessed this public spectacle.

  “You do not usually eat at home at midday,” I heard her observe quietly.

  The speed and serenity with which Nina had obeyed Oscar Fairchild, displaying the unthinking, untroubled devotion a loyal Labrador might show his master, alarmed me. Surely Nina, her name thoroughly blackened in the Fairchild household and already whispered with knowing disapproval in each corner of the Legation Quarter, could not bow so easily to this man, the architect of her shame. How unreservedly she had wrangled with the odious jester not long departed, how unyieldingly she had she challenged his coarse humor, and yet how lightly, how swiftly she had assented to Oscar’s suggestion that he accompany her home, and now they walked the length of the Legation Quarter together, the sound of their close steps a song of scandal. I wished suddenly to follow them, and excused myself from the onlookers, noticing the source of the morning’s disagreement as I extricated myself from their midst. Amongst the sun-bleached, dim notices of delayed salvation pasted on the wall was a piece of paper only recently affixed there, one of its corners loose and curling in the heat. The handwritten note announced in English that the lives of young Chinese converts resident in Prince Su’s palace must be protected at all costs and that NO MEN, SAVE COLONEL SHIBA’S GUARDS, MAY ENTER THE CHAMBERS THAT HOUSE THE YOUNG WOMEN.

  I walked towards the Fairchild house, but did not see Nina and Oscar on the way. I considered that they must have hurried home so rapidly that I had missed them, and counted myself fortunate, for what might I have said if I had seen them? Could I have demanded that Nina abandon the man who so generously hosted her and her father under his roof? Might I have, in my unceasing efforts to dim Nina’s infamy, have instead breathed into it new life, confirmed to any casual observer the rumors that swirled around the pair and verified the disgrace, close and unflagging, that accompanied Nina now wherever she went? These were the thoughts that turned in my mind when I did then, unexpectedly, observe the pair. Nina and Oscar stood together in a slender patch of shade in one of the narrow alleyways that provided me with a shortcut to the Grand, their heads bowed so close that their foreheads almost touched. I witnessed Fairchild produce a handkerchief from his pocket, and watched as Nina raised it to dab the corners of her eyes. They spoke, or rather murmured to each other, and I stood motionless, undetected, watching them. Oscar glanced briefly around, and satisfied they remained unseen, pulled Nina into an embrace. She sobbed more forcefully then, her eyes tightly closed, a useless dam against her tears. I turned from them, and with inching shame and incipient loneliness, returned to my room at the Grand.

  As we the besieged settled into the month of July, sad little events marked our days. We found a Chinese to take a message to Tientsin; he hid the missive in a bowl of rice hoping to outwit the enemy, who usually searched pockets and linings for such materials. Few expected he would return, none believed his mission would finally summon Seymour’s long-delayed soldiers and yet all agreed some action, however symbolic, must be taken towards progress. One French marine offered to go himself to Tienstin, so frustrated was he with the interminable wait for death. His departure was forbidden by one of the Catholic priests, on the grounds that it would be a sin to denounce his religion if caught by Boxers and to do so would be the only way to preserve his life. By this stage I had grown rather tired of the religious fervor on both sides of the conflict, though I admired the cheery industriousness our straightened circumstances had produced in large numbers of the besieged. I witnessed this flourishing work ethic close at hand: Hilde transformed the Grand into a most productive bakery that provided hungry Legation Quarter-dwellers with dozens of loaves each day. Her management was attentive and resolute; when her head baker took a bullet to the head through a window one day, Hilde made sure his staff continued to work by holding them at gunpoint while their leader’s blood congealed on the floor. It surprised some of the residents that in these most trying of moments others wished to continue as though their lives remained untouched by the Boxers, as evinced by Lillian Price’s insistence on hosting a little celebration on the fourth of July. It was no great surprise to me; to abandon routine in any war is to cede that ultimate battleground to the enemy: the mind.

  The American gathering afforded me the first opportunity to observe Nina at close quarters since that secret embrace. I had not been to dinner at the Fairchild house for days; a host of reasons, murky and undefined even in my own mind, kept me at bay. I experienced a sense of compunction at having witnessed Oscar and Nina together in a moment of great intimacy (for tears between lovers indicate a confidence far deeper than nudity or even poetry might) and while I missed my close friendship with Nicholas, I struggled to imagine how I might successfully restore our previous camaraderie following our recent disagreements. And then there was my pride: La Contessa had not visited me for several consecutive nights, and I hoped to prove the Chinese maxim that a short separation could draw the most established couple closer than newlyweds. Watching Nina amongst those barbed friends and smiling foes, it saddened me to see her adopt a steely indifference to us all over the course of the dinner. In fact, as geographically and culturally irrelevant as it may have been for them, only the Italians seemed able to muster any vigor to bring to the proceedings, chatting pleasantly with the handful of American officials and soldiers accommodated that evening under Fairchild’s roof. I noted, with what I suppose was the justified suspicion of the transgressor, that while Pietro Mancini spoke affably with all present, and even afforded himself the occasional bout of congenial laughter, La Contessa’s husband appeared to studiously avoid my eye, and reserved his mirth whenever I made some humorous observation about our trying circumstances. As the meal (horse meat, naturally, accompanied by a selection of the Grand’s springiest loaves) drew to a close, a bullet pierced the window, flying over our heads and ending its course by puncturing the corner of the Queen’s portrait above the mantelpiece. Whilst the Americans dived under the table and prayed to God for mercy, those of us who were subjects of Victoria raised our glasses to the incident: it recalled a similar event with the Boers at Ladysmith, when the arrival of such an ominous bullet had in fact heralded an imminent end to that siege.

  The bullet shattered any remaining pretense of standard dining protocol and the guests milled freely between rooms, arms outstretched in invit
ation to the servants to fill their glasses.

  In the drawing room I approached Nina, who stood alone by the window, observing the sun’s last rays disappear over the horizon.

  “Miss Ward,” I said.

  “Good evening.”

  She did not turn, but maintained her position, her face was a study of unflustered concentration.

  “You have been rather quiet this evening,” I started.

  “That American soldier was at the palace,” she said. “That night.” She faced me then, her mouth drawn in a severe line. “Forgive me if I feel less than sociable.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I wished I could say I was surprised, but in every conflict countries favor blood over deed, flag over conduct, and so they turn the vilest of men into perfect saints in the name of nationhood. The solider Nina spoke of had arrived with a jade turtle, pilfered from who knows where, which he had presented with flourish to a delighted Lillian Price.

  “I am frustrated,” Nina said quietly. “I am idle, I do nothing each day but sew sandbags. Surely they must have sufficient numbers by now?”

  “Do you not help your father in his work?”

  “A little.” She turned her wrists in circles, inspected the cobwebs of veins on the undersides of her arms. “He seems to need my help less these days.”

  “Perhaps you might help Mr and Mrs Samuels at the Grand,” I said. “The hotel has been attacked, but it remains rather safer than the Su mansion.”

  “Oh yes!” Nina’s eyes filled with light as she finally turned to face me. “Anything rather than spend all day here.”

  It was with startling immediacy that I realized the suggestion might have constituted an error on my part. So far no soldiers of any stripe had swarmed the Grand in large numbers, but its position on the edge of the Legation Quarter had made it vulnerable to a series of constant, non-lethal attacks. Guests (and here I use the word loosely to include those displaced peoples who slept in the hallways and under the tables) had on several occasions heard cries from the Boxers who lay in wait on the other side of the Legation wall which brushed the corners of the hotel. Bullets pierced walls and shattered windows with alarming frequency. If Prince Su’s mansion, protected by Colonel Shiba and his men, was deemed too dangerous for Nina, the Grand was little better. And so it surprised me when Nicholas gave his blessing for Nina to help at the hotel; perhaps as her father he felt her dissatisfaction and restlessness even more keenly than I did. He then suggested I might like to read the latest chapter of his book on the Boxers, and the mild rapprochement cheered me. I left Fairchild’s home feeling lighter than I had for days; La Contessa had also swept by me in the drawing room and, lips grazing my ear, whispered the singular promise of “later”.