Dragons in Shallow Waters

by Kane, Clare

  Hastily I wrote a report of the day’s events, frustrated as I recorded each significant moment - the champagne dawn, Gaselee at the gate, the majestic pride of the Sikhs on horseback - that I knew not what these elements might portend. The whereabouts of the Empress Dowager remained a mystery, and the Boxer movement, although now undeniably frail, was, I presumed, still in existence. Did the Boxers rampage, depleted but unfatigued, across the desolate plains and leave missionaries and Christians slain, or had the foreign aggression against their cause led them to falter and fold, to accept defeat? I wrote to the emptiness, attempted to impose an order upon the few facts within my cognizance, and returned to the Chinese city where I graced a young man’s palm with silver and instructions to take the dispatch to Tienstin. Whether my words would successfully travel those two hundred miles, never mind all the way to London, I had no idea, but in the spirit of post-siege optimism I decided to pay the man’s inflated price.

  The air was thick with conversation when I arrived at the Fairchild household at dusk. A harried servant let me in without a word, hurrying immediately back to the kitchen where preparations were underway for this most momentous of dinners. The drawing room played host to a cocktail party of sorts, where liberating soldiers in begrimed uniforms drank wine while surrounded by the women of the house in their most splendid evening wear. Nina and Nicholas sat slightly apart, Nicholas tugging uncomfortably on a suit that now hung loosely from his shoulders, Nina twirled a loose strand of hair absentmindedly around her fingers. Her appearance was once again drawn, her cheeks empty of color, though I noticed her muted appearance did not deter the military men from stealing glances at her as frequently as propriety would allow. I made towards the pair, but was intercepted by a British lieutenant.

  “Alistair Scott?” he inquired.

  “I’m afraid so.” I extended a hand. His right hand, unhindered by wine, shook mine vigorously.

  “Quite a coup for a newspaperman, this,” he said. “Imagine, you shall write the story from having lived it. Remarkable.”

  “Yes,” I replied. I wondered if either of my reports had been successfully delivered by telegraph; I was relieved, at least, that I had not yet received a man’s head in return for my efforts.

  “I hope you have already reported today’s liberation to England. I imagine those at home would find this news very cheering; we have had nothing but bad news from South Africa for so long now. Very dispiriting.”

  “I have attempted to, yes, although I admit my account of today’s events was rather sparse,” I said. “I am waiting for history to happen before my eyes.”

  “Oh, Mr Scott, would this scene alone not make a most cheering story for those at home? All these lovely ladies and refined gentlemen, preserving civility and upholding our values while surrounded by barbarism on all sides, rescued heroically by Her Majesty’s loyal servants after weeks of terrible conflict in the Chinese countryside. Yes, quite a wonderful story.”

  “I don’t deny it is a most pleasant scene,” I said, “But my readers also require some of those rather less pleasant details: retribution, reparation, some indication of what comes next.”

  “All in good time, Mr Scott,” he said. “Justice shall be done. You shall see.”

  I smiled, bowed lightly, and cut across the room with purpose. I felt that the arrival of these military men, swollen with the significance of their conflict, proud and arrogant despite the apparent shambles of their numerous abortive attempts to liberate Peking, had disturbed our delicate collective balance. Ignorant of our weeks of hardship, these decorated newcomers wished only to recount their own tales of bravery and courage, and I intuited that they saw the collected Britishers of the city only as guests at some quaint summer party, willowy spectators to their rugged glory. Pleased as I was to be free of the Boxer threat, their presence irked me, and I feared this arrival of Allied might would bring little good to Peking.

  Nina and Nicholas stood together to greet me in their finest clothes. Their cheeks sunken, their skin wan, they appeared hollowed versions of the selves they had been that unworried night in May when Nina had first met Oscar Fairchild. Father and daughter, united once more in curious isolation, they stood hesitantly apart from the fray, unable to follow the social rhythm of the strangers around them.

  “This liberation business is quite exhausting,” Nicholas said, looking around at the unfamiliar faces that filled the drawing room. “They say we cannot go home yet.”

  “Let them have their party,” I said. “They must be heroes before they can become administrators.”

  “Quite right.” Nicholas coughed drily. “I shall enquire again tomorrow.”

  “Where is Mancini?” I asked.

  I had not seen La Contessa’s husband, and feared the direction my impulses might take if he were to appear. My grief for the loss of Chiara was hardening, and increasingly took new shape as rage.

  “Returned to the Italian Legation,” Nicholas said plainly. “I rather think that is for the best.”

  “He has certainly benefited from the distractions of liberation,” I said coldly.

  Nicholas nodded warily. Nina stood by us, but did not engage in conversation. Her eyes scanned the room endlessly, returning time and again to Oscar Fairchild, who remained deep in conversation with military officials. Oscar, in a crisp suit, his hair carefully waxed, was one of the few men in that sultry, clamorous room who stole no tentative looks in Nina’s direction.

  We were called to dinner, and under the watchful gaze of Queen Victoria we arranged ourselves around the table using a variety of chairs of all shapes and sizes collected from around the house. The food on offer was much the same, namely horse meat, but I considered the helpings of rice to be more generous than usual. An American general had been invited to this primarily British gathering due to his acquaintance with Lillian Price. Red-faced with wine, the man commanded conversation from his seat by Lillian.

  “I met Miss Price in Havana last year,” he said. “My wife and I were quite charmed. And to think she is now here!”

  “Isn’t it strange?” Lillian agreed, smiling broadly.

  “Miss Price’s brother is currently in Tokyo. I recently received word from him, he was most concerned for the welfare of his only sister. I kept you in my mind, Miss Price, as we made the arduous journey here. I thought of that delightful lunch we had in Havana. Not once did I consider turning back.”

  “Hear, hear!” The British lieutenant who had cornered to me before dinner raised his glass. “We had expected to find you all in a far worse state. Imagine how happy we were to discover you in such high civility. It was as if we had stumbled across a garden party, wasn’t it? All those pretty dresses and the tennis courts… It was quite magical.”

  Contented murmurs passed down the table. More glasses were raised, more toasts spoken. I longed to get away, feeling suddenly an urgent need to write. As the meal drew to a close Oscar Fairchild rose, pushed his chair behind him, cleared his throat and faced his assorted guests.

  “On behalf of Her Majesty’s government,” he began, “I wish to thank the brave British troops we have amongst us this evening for their tremendous courage. Their valiant efforts have liberated us from that most ghastly of enemies, the Boxers.”

  More toasts, more congratulation, more elation.

  “Over the past weeks we have all experienced times of terrible desperation, moments when hope appeared to entirely abandon us to a most miserable fate. We dreamed of England, we dreamed of liberty, we dreamed of unsophisticated pleasures, of walking a mile with fear of neither bullet nor Boxer. Today, you have delivered these dreams to us.”

  Rapturous applause. Nina rested her forearm on the table; her loose, tired fingers supported the stem of her raised wine glass.

  “We have all,” Oscar continued, “faced a terrible beast this summer. We did not cower, we did not doubt, we did not submit to t
he beast’s demands. We kept a flame of hope burning in our hearts, knowing that you would come to liberate us.”

  Some of the military men were on their feet, they clapped and stamped, setting forth peals of good-natured laughter, exposing broad rows of white teeth.

  “Yet however trying the past weeks may have proved for us here, however terrified and wretched we may have felt, however many times we complained of eating horse meat and having to ration our wine, never once did we forget that you, on our behalf, suffered far greater indignities and faced considerably graver dangers. For that, gentlemen, we thank you.”

  Not one amongst us remained sitting. One lieutenant started singing: “When Britain first, at Heaven’s command…” By the time he reached the chorus, “Rule Britannia! Rule the waves, Britons never will be slaves”, all joined him in uncurbed gaiety. Even the Americans made an effort to stumble over the unfamiliar words; only Nina’s lips did not shape the lyrics.

  Dinner broke up in triumphant jubilation and the guests proceeded to the drawing room for more drinking. I made my excuses and headed for the front door. Stepping outside, the evening felt cooler, the sky wider, higher somehow, now I knew that the walls that surrounded us, while still proud and impenetrable, no longer marked an impassable barrier between us and the city. I heard light footsteps behind me.

  “Oh, please, may I come with you?” Nina asked.

  “To the Grand?”

  “Yes. It is so warm in there. I feel quite uncomfortable.”

  “I suppose Hilde shall be happy to see you.”

  Celebrations at the Grand were rather more understated. For the refugees, one state of limbo had been lifted; now another opened before them. The foreigners were liberated, but what might the pink-faced saviors do for the dead priests in the hinterland, for the burnt-out churches in nameless hamlets? The cruel histories of the Chinese Christians checked inclination towards optimism and the hotel was quiet. We found Hilde in the kitchen with Lijun. Both kneaded dough in perfect concentration.

  “Still baking?” I greeted them. “Forget that and celebrate.”

  “And you, Mr Scott? You have returned rather early from supper, have you not? Was that not a celebration?” Hilde, knuckles dusted white, did not lift her hands from the dough.

  “A fair observation, I grant you. I have returned to write.”

  Nina stood behind Lijun, watching the girl’s wrists roll as she labored.

  “Are you happy?” Nina asked her.

  “It is too soon for happiness,” Lijun said quietly with furrowed brow. “So many men, guns, swords, they remind me.”

  “Remind you of what?” Nina asked.

  “Of all that came before.” Lijun wiped her hands on the apron tied around her waist.

  “Will you go home?” Nina asked.

  “Where is home now?” Lijun shrugged. “Perhaps I shall stay in Peking.”

  “Let us bake these loaves, Lijun, then that shall be enough for today.” Hilde turned to me and smiled. “A drink, Mr Scott? A little celebration of our own?”

  The four of us moved to the bar, which was home still to a half dozen families who showed little to no interest in the bottles that lined the shelves of the room. They barely stirred as we entered, contented in their family groups. Hilde poured me a gin; Nina refused one. Hilde’s glass clinked against mine, she took a hearty sip.

  “So, Mr Scott, what now?” she asked.

  “It is too early to say.”

  “That sounds familiar. I suppose men of your profession hate to be proved incorrect,” Hilde replied. Lijun sat at Nina’s feet, her head leaning against Nina’s knee, one small hand reached up to intertwine their fingers.

  “I am no soothsayer,” I said slowly. “Yet if I were to employ my powers of forecast, I would say that the Empress Dowager shall not withstand this pressure from the foreign powers. The troops may have taken their time, but they are here, and they have succeeded in liberating Peking, or at least the only section of it about which the allied nations care. The story shall be a sensation abroad, whether it is written by me or some imaginative chap in London with a taste for the Oriental. Fair maidens and Chinese barbarians, I can just imagine how it might be written.” I paused. “The Qing shall turn from the Boxers, and leave them without state sponsorship.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the movement shall dissipate, for now, return to the land, where it will lie fallow, hissing and crackling under the surface before it rises again.”

  A mother a few feet away settled two of her children on the floor to sleep, slipping bundles of clothes as pillows under their small heads.

  “Come,” Hilde said. “We ought to let them sleep.”

  To my surprise, Nina followed me when I retired to my room.

  “You don’t mind, do you?” she asked. “I promise I shan’t make a sound.”

  I seated myself before the desk, an empty piece of paper accused me. I tapped my pen against the desk; I wished to write something beyond the mere facts I had filed earlier in the day, but words were timid, and they refused to reveal themselves to me.

  “Oh.” Soft, surprised. Nina cradled two emerald teardrops in her palm, earrings that had once hung glittering from La Contessa’s ears. She held my gaze, steady and deep, before letting her eyelids fall, defeated. When she raised her eyes to meet mine again I saw they brimmed with tears.

  “Oh, Nina.” I moved to the armchair where she sat, took her hand in mine. Her body shook with unvoiced tears, but she remained hard, removed, yielding nothing to the comfort I offered.

  “You may have them,” I said finally. “They are lovely, aren’t they? Here, wear them now.”

  I helped her to affix the jewels, then stepped back to admire her, a glimmering, spectral apparition of watery eyes and dewy emeralds. “Beautiful,” I said. She held her head proudly, defying more tears.

  The sight of Nina, pale and lissom, sitting stiff and tall in that chair where La Contessa had once lounged and laughed, curled her hair loose and long around suggestive fingers, moved me suddenly, and I took a step towards her. I was gripped by a momentary madness, an unexplained impulse to not only embrace Nina but to press my lips against hers, to feel the skin of another against my own.

  I denied the feeling, quelled the desire, but as I returned to the desk and retook my pen, I felt Nina watch me with curiosity.

  Miss W, I wrote, wears the emeralds of a dead woman.

  The words came then without delay and I felt myself once more able to write in vivid tones. Nina remained silent, watched me write, rose only once to light a lamp for me. The night pulled black around us, from outside we heard proud, carousing cries, we listened to songs sung in languages we couldn’t understand, and we felt the release of tensions collapsing under the weight of alcohol.

  Miss W wears the emeralds of a dead woman, she displays a gift she hoped never to receive, the teardrops that studded the ears of a countess passed only last week.

  I pushed the paper away.

  “Let me walk you home, Nina. You must sleep. I feel as though we have been awake forever.”

  “May I read it?” Nina said, approaching the desk.

  “Oh no,” I said hurriedly, placing my hand squarely on her back and pushing her towards the door. “I’m superstitious about these things. There’s always a better word to use, a sentence to remove, an adjective to add. I do not like anyone to see it until it’s ready.”

  “The Chinese call that adding feet to the snake after drawing it,” she said with a shake of her head. “You ought to be careful of doing too much.”

  Downstairs we passed the dining room where Edward entertained a gaggle of soldiers. The table was littered with empty bottles, one teetered close to the table edge, threatening to fall and shatter. I waved quickly at Edward, noticed the weariness in his drunk eyes, the hard corners to his smile. I accomp
anied Nina through the streets of the Legation Quarter, where we walked now free from danger, the only obstacles in our path stumbling, singing drunks, emissaries of freedom. And I wondered, watching her cross those now-familiar streets, her steps languid where they had been hurried, how she might ever dismount the tiger upon whose back she rode that summer, and realized that I had little idea how her story might end. No words, I knew, could neatly tie together Nina’s past and present, no turn of phrase could contain her experience. And yet, in my own little way that night, I had already tried to voice the unspoken.

  XIV

  Dawn broke muted and sombre over the Legation Quarter. The liberated, their senses dulled by the revelry of the night, slept through the first rising sun of freedom. Not I. I may too have partaken of wine, but it had not permitted me more than the most insubstantial of snatched slumber, and wild with impressions, frenzied with anticipation, I had risen several times in the night to continue the dispatch I had started to write. At dawn I abandoned all pretense of sleep, and reading the vivid words I had written in those darkest hours, I immediately, shamefully ripped the paper neatly in two, unsettled by how easily, how luridly my sentiments had awoken at the glistening sight of La Contessa’s old earrings. I recovered my level head and began again, dispensing with all mention of glittering emeralds and unshed teardrops, and was writing the last faithful, unvarnished words for my editor (The grateful besieged, thankfully rescued by brave troops whose sufferings have been so much worse than their own, await diplomatic negotiations to decide the indemnity for their distress at the hands of the Boxers) when Nicholas knocked lightly upon the door and asked if I would accompany him home before Nina rose, to protect her, he explained, from whatever horror might lie in the shadows of the Tartar Wall.

  We walked to the edge of the Legation Quarter in companionable silence, Nicholas muttering to himself now and again as he stumbled over rubble and detritus. Nearing the gate, a cry startled us. Nina’s hair billowed loose around her shoulders as she ran towards us.