by John Wilcox
‘I was, Sir Claude, but some years ago now, I fear.’
‘Yes, I have heard of you. Good work in Afghanistan, the Sudan and Matabeleland, I understand. I would be grateful if you could tarry a moment to talk with me.’
‘Of course, sir. 352, go with the ladies and make sure they are comfortable.’
‘Very good, bach sir.’
Once the two were seated, Sir Claude offered a cigarette and requested that Fonthill go through the details of the attack once again. At the end, he nodded, blew a blue cloud of smoke up to the ceiling, watching it, his head back.
At length, Simon broke the silence. ‘Do you anticipate that the Boxers will attack the Legation Quarter, Sir Claude?’
The minister shrugged. ‘It really depends on the Empress, Fonthill. It is rumoured that she might sit back and quietly encourage them to have a go at us, don’t you know. But I rather doubt it. She wouldn’t dare to flout the Foreign Powers in that way.’
‘But aren’t the Boxers on their way here? I understand that they have torched the railway junction near here and cut the telegraph wires.’
‘Quite so. In addition to Mr Griffith, I hear that two more British missionaries have been murdered in the province. Worse than that, however, the Empress has replaced Prince Ching, a most amenable chap, as president of China, with a feller called Prince Tuan. Now, he’s a reactionary of the worst kind. Hates all foreigners and he could well encourage the Boxers.’
Fonthill frowned. ‘Good Lord. So it all looks rather bad?’
MacDonald stood. ‘Not at all. No need for funk at all, my dear fellow. However, as a precaution, I telegraphed Tientsin and asked that a detachment of military should be sent here without delay. Some three hundred officers and men – mainly sailors and marines from European warships lying off Taku Bar – have been despatched. They should be here very soon. Should be enough to ward off any nonsense from these Boxer fellers.’
He held out his hand. ‘But good to have you here, just in case, Fonthill. You could well be damned useful if we do have a spot of bother. So I hope you will stay a day or two, what?’
‘Of course, sir.’ They shook hands.
The minister walked him to the door and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘By the way, I have just heard some good news from home. Mafeking has been relieved.’
Fonthill stared back bleakly. ‘Mafeking? What … where … is that?’
‘Good Lord, don’t you know? Ah, but of course. You have been travelling. The war in South Africa, this trouble with the Boers. You must know that they have been besieging Mafeking, this town in the Transvaal, for ages. Well, we’ve relieved the siege at last. It’s been a source of great rejoicing back home.’
‘Yes, of course. I know that Mafeking. But … do you mean that the war in South Africa is still on?’
‘Oh yes.’ Sir Claude gave a wry smile. ‘My dear chap, you really must have been out of touch. These Boers gave us a terrible hiding in the first few weeks. They brought off three major victories, but the tide has turned, as we always knew it would. The matter should be brought to a close very soon now, I would think. But it was touch and go for a time.’
Simon frowned. ‘Yes. I always thought that the Boer farmer was the best light-cavalryman in the world.’ And then, almost to himself, ‘I should have been there, dammit. I should have been there.’ He looked up at the Scotsman and smiled. ‘Ah well, can’t be helped. Let’s hope it’s over soon. And this affair, too.’
‘Quite so. I am sure it will be. I don’t really anticipate trouble, you know. We should all be quite safe within the Legation Quarter and I trust Her Celestial Highness to sort out the Boxers if and when they get here.’ He gave a paternal smile. ‘Now go and get some rest, my dear chap. You’ve had quite a day of it.’
‘Thank you, sir. Goodbye.’
Fonthill walked out into the hot sun and looked around him. Unlike the teeming streets outside, the Quarter seemed somnolent. A cluster of cream-suited Europeans wearing solar topees walked by and, despite the heat, several tight-waisted ladies, with smart straw hats tied under their chins by coloured scarves, sauntered past, holding parasols above their heads. Simon doffed his hat and they smiled back. It was all so civilised. Then he remembered the hundreds – the thousands – of Chinese on the other side of those high walls and he heard again the cries of ‘Sha! Sha!’
He strode away, a troubled frown on his face.
CHAPTER THREE
The next evening the detachment from Tientsin, mainly sailors, arrived. They marched through the streets of Peking into the Legation Quarter with bayonets fixed, a fine sight. Yet their journey had not been uneventful. They had to be transported from their ships in the bay by lighters and other shallow-draught vessels past the Chinese forts guarding the River Pei Ho to the small river port of Tangku, from which they were able to entrain for Tientsin and travel on, via the now repaired railway, to the line terminal at Machiapu, just outside the walls of Peking. There, however, six thousand Muslim soldiers from the northern province of Kansu had been concentrated by the Chinese authorities to await the arrival of the foreign force.
Throughout that day, Fonthill and his companions had grown increasingly aware that the residents within the enclave did not share Sir Claude MacDonald’s sanguine view of events. Crowds could be heard in the streets outside the Legation walls chanting and shouting. It was said that many of the missionaries in their compounds out in the Chinese City had donned native dress, twisted their long hair into pigtails and prepared for flight.
It was a huge relief, then, when, at the last minute, the Kansu troops were withdrawn and the polyglot contingent was allowed to pass unmolested through to the Yung Ting Men, the main, gated entrance to the city, and then through the streets to the Quarter. In all, 337 officers and men, comprising guards specifically for the British, French, Italian, Japanese and Russian legations, marched in, led by a tiny contingent of the United States Marine Corps.
Fonthill and Jenkins watched them, silent among all the foreign residents around them who were waving and cheering the arrivals.
‘It’s not much, is it?’ sniffed Jenkins.
‘No, it’s not,’ Simon agreed. ‘And it’s a mixed bunch of nationalities, always difficult to command in action. Still, they look professional and I would back trained troops any day, however small, against a mob.’
A further contingent of fifty-two German and thirty-seven Austrian sailors arrived three days later and the presence of the troops had an almost magical effect on the city. The mobs outside the Quarter dispersed, the tension eased and those missionaries who had taken refuge within the Legation went back to their compounds in the city. Mrs Griffith, who with the rest of her party had attended the burial of her husband, began making plans to return home with her two sons.
Fonthill took advantage of this one evening to ask the old lady about Gerald. The young man had continually absented himself during the first days after their arrival, only returning for the evening meal at the hotel. Why, asked Simon, did he seem so antagonistic to his fellow ex-patriots in Peking?
Mrs Griffith smiled and nodded. ‘I understand your question,’ she said. ‘He can be dogmatic on the point sometimes. But, you know, Simon, he is a good boy at heart, even though his father used to despair of him sometimes.’
‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Griffith, but sometimes he almost seems to favour the Boxers. And where does he go during the daytime here?’
‘Well, you should know that, since he graduated from university here, he has wanted to join the Chinese foreign service.’ Her eyes, which had remained sad since their arrival, now briefly shone with pride. ‘Gerald is a very good Mandarin speaker, you know, even better than his father. He has made some very good friends at court and has always admired the Empress. He has had this ambition to serve this country, but, of course, it is terribly difficult for someone who is not born of Chinese parents to work in the court here. But he still has hopes.’
‘I see. But surely this is
a difficult time to do that?’
‘Oh quite. But he feels that this is when he could be of most service. Seeing both sides, you see.’
Fonthill fought back the desire to answer ‘or just one’. Instead, he nodded and smiled acquiescence. ‘Well, I wish him luck,’ he said. ‘He is obviously a bright lad.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, isn’t he? He will be a great comfort to me, now that … now that Edward is gone.’
‘And Chang?’
‘Ah, Chang. He has been with us since he was a baby and we have always tried to treat him as one of our own – the same as Gerald.’ Her brow clouded for a moment. ‘But in the last couple of years Gerald seems to have taken against his brother. It is something that had begun to worry Edward quite a lot. We had hoped that they would both go into the ministry together, you know.’
‘What now?’
Mrs Griffith pushed a stray strand of hair back into its bun. ‘Chang is still quite young, of course, but he may take holy orders. Perhaps, once he is ordained, he could take over his father’s mission. That would be nice, if it is God’s will.’
They were interrupted by the arrival of an agitated Alice. She sat next to Mrs Griffith and took up the old lady’s hand. ‘Bad news, I’m afraid. We have just heard that another two British missionaries have been murdered by the Boxers at a place about forty miles south of Peking.’
Mrs Griffith put her free hand to her mouth. ‘What are their names? We are sure to know them. Where, did you say?’
‘I don’t know, Aunt. But there is worse. The Boxers have made another raid on the railway. A heavier one this time. Stations have been burnt, the Chinese troops guarding them have fled and the rails have been torn up. The line to Tientsin is definitely broken. More and more missionaries are coming into the Legation. You can’t leave now, I fear, my dear.’ Alice turned her face to Simon. ‘It is rumoured that the Boxers are marching on the city.’
Fonthill put his hand on her shoulder. ‘That rumour has been rife since we got here, my love. But I agree. You can’t leave Peking, my dear Aunt, even though this heat has got so much worse. I will try and see Sir Claude and find the true position.’
Outside, he met a perspiring and indignant Jenkins. ‘’Ere,’ he said. ‘’ave you ’eard what ’appened when they burnt down that racecourse place?’
‘No.’
‘These boxin’ chaps got ’old of one of the native Christian blokes and roasted ’im alive in the ashes of the place.’
‘Good Lord. Look, I think trouble is definitely coming here.’ Simon looked with affection at his former batman and his comrade in so many tight corners. ‘352, you once were the best scavenger in the British Army. Do you think—’
‘What’s a scavenger, then, like?’
‘Thief. Well – more the picker-up of unwanted trifles. A taker of things from people who don’t need them and the giver of them to friends who need them.’
‘Well, I did my small best, bach sir, when that sort of … er … skill was needed. What do we need now, then?’
‘We need rifles, 352. We need rifles. Two of them, as modern as you can get but we will put up with older ones, if need be. A couple of Martini-Henrys would be fine. One for you and one for me. If trouble comes, those Colts will not be adequate, I fear. Here, take this money. It should be enough.’
‘Very good, sir. I shall go scrimmaging. Personally, I’d be much ’appier with a proper rifle than with them pea-shooters. I’ve made a couple of drinkin’ mates who might be able to ’elp. No promises, mind you.’ Mopping his brow, he walked firmly away, a sense of purpose in his step.
At the British Legation, Simon found that Sir Claude was in conference with the heads of the other delegations. John Sims, however, an aide who had once served with Simon’s old regiment, the 24th of Foot, and with whom he had consequently struck up a friendship, was forthcoming about the situation.
The young man, working in his shirtsleeves in a small office as hot as an oven, was emphatic. ‘We’ve heard that the Boxers have seized and are in the process of destroying the railway bridge at Yangtsun, just about the one irreplaceable link in the line between Peking and Tientsin,’ he said. ‘The heads of the legations here can’t agree on concerted action and we’re getting absolutely no change from the Manchu court. So Sir Claude has telegraphed to Admiral Seymour in Tientsin to send a large force to us here before it’s too late.’
He held up a telegram. ‘Haven’t been able to show this to the old man yet, because he’s still chewing the fat with the other ministers, but it says that two thousand armed men of eight nationalities have steamed out of Tientsin this morning. They should be here tonight.’
Fonthill blew out his cheeks. ‘Thank God for that. Look, just in case they can’t get through …’ he held up his hand to stop his friend from interrupting ‘… it sounds as though it’s going to be damned difficult to come the eighty miles by train. Just in case they have to slog through on foot, how many men do we have who could defend the Legation Quarter until they arrive?’
Sims frowned and shook his head. ‘Afraid I have no idea, sir. Apart from the sailors who arrived the other day, there is just a handful of Legation guards, don’t know how many.’ He looked up at Fonthill ruefully. ‘I know what you’re thinking. There should have been some sort of contingency planning, but Sir Claude has been so busy trying to push his colleagues from the other legations into some kind of agreement …’ His voice tailed away and he wiped his brow. ‘It’s been like trying to get a bunch of opera prima donnas to sing all together in tune.’
He was interrupted by the arrival of Sir Claude, resplendent and perspiring in his high-buttoned blue jacket, replete with polished buttons and gold braid. He shook Fonthill’s hand.
‘Been to the Spanish Legation,’ he said. ‘The minister there is officially the doyen so we meet there, but, he is elderly and, as a leader, he is useless. We are getting nowhere with the palace. Do you know, Fonthill, when I went to protest formally about the deaths of our British missionaries, one of the Tsungli Yamen, that’s a sort of Foreign Office, went fast asleep openly.’
He put up a silencing hand to Sims who was waving his telegram. ‘I’ve been trying to get us to demand that the Empress receives all the members of the corps diplomatique in a formal audience, but we couldn’t agree unanimously even on that.’ It seemed as though the ends of Sir Claude’s moustache were quivering in frustration. He turned to Sims. ‘Yes, John, what is it?’
Wordlessly, the aide offered him the telegram. Sir Claude read it and then looked up. ‘Thank God for that,’ he exclaimed. He sat down on the edge of Sims’s desk and eased open the gold-embossed high collar of his tunic, allowing his Adam’s apple to leap, it seemed, with relief. He addressed Sims. ‘Tell the commanding officer of the force that arrived the other day that I want him and his sailors and marines to turn out in force tomorrow, with carts, to march to the station to escort these troops in. Make a bit of a show of it, you know.’
He turned back to Simon. ‘Well, Fonthill, we should be all right now. Two thousand troops is more than enough to put down these renegades if they attack us – and more than enough to impress the Court.’ Then he frowned. ‘If they can repair the railway, that is. But even if they can’t, it’s not a huge distance to march and I don’t see a force like that being deterred by an undisciplined mob.’
Simon’s face remained impassive. ‘What about the Chinese army, though, sir? Would they join forces with the rebels?’
MacDonald shook his head firmly. ‘Most unlikely. That would amount to a virtual declaration of war on the Foreign Powers. The Empress would never do that. No. I’m getting up early to welcome the troops in just after dawn at the station. Won’t you join me?’
‘Of course, sir.’
Well before dawn the next morning, Fonthill and Jenkins joined the small party of ministers, dressed in their finery, who waited, amongst a crowd of Chinese – unusually silent – for the arrival of the troops. The sailors and marines had dra
wn up carts to convey the two thousand newcomers into the Quarter and, as the sun came up, European civilians on horseback pushed their way through to get a better view. Also present were the Kansu soldiers, drawn up outside the city, in the park-like grounds near the Ha Ta Men Gate.
But no trains were reported as pulling into the station. The sun grew higher, the heat increased and the waiting became more and more uncomfortable for the officials and other Europeans.
‘I knew it,’ breathed Fonthill to Jenkins. ‘The main bridge is down in the south-east, the line is up and there’s no way a force like this can get through by rail. It could be some time before they get here.’
The Welshman nodded, his great moustache half sucked under his lower lip. ‘Just as well, then,’ he whispered, ‘that I’ve managed to get us two rifles, ain’t it?’
Simon grinned. ‘Oh, well done. I knew you would. Where are they?’
‘Under me bed, next to me potty. I’ll show you later.’
‘How old?’
‘Well, I reckon they was used at Waterloo, but I think they’ll do. They are only single-shot Martini-Henrys, like we used in Zululand. But they were good enough for us against them black fellers, so I reckon they should be able to knock over a few Chinks, look you. I’ve tested them and they fire ’igh, so remember that. I also bought two lungers – bayonets, just like we ’ad in Zululand – and two ’undred rounds of ammunition each.’
‘You’re a miracle, 352, that’s what you are. I only hope we don’t have to use them.’
‘So do I. Oh, I’ve got some change for you.’ He dug in his pocket and produced a handful of Chinese coins.
‘Oh no. You keep that. As long as you don’t spend it on the demon drink.’
‘Who, me, bach sir? Never.’
‘Well, I wish we’d got the things with us now.’ Fonthill looked about him. ‘There could be trouble here.’