by John Wilcox
Simon relayed the message from Sir Claude MacDonald and then told his own story of how he and his two companions were able to reach the arsenal. At the end, both men fell silent.
It was Seymour who broke the silence. ‘You’ve shown remarkable courage and resource, Fonthill,’ he said, offering his sad smile, ‘and when the people back home hear about it, you will surely get rather more plaudits than I. But that is of no account. What matters now is that we have to get out of this place.’
‘Quite so.’ Fonthill’s mind raced. The story of the relief expedition was undoubtedly an unmitigated disaster. Surely someone – someone, that is, with some experience of land warfare, not an admiral, for God’s sake! – should have realised how vulnerable to attack would be an advance through enemy territory by train. Cutting the advance into segments by pulling up the line and then attacking each exposed segment would be as easy as snipping a piece of string here and there. His mind flashed again to the vulnerability of Alice now and of how the defenders of the Legation Quarter had been relying on relief and expecting it daily, scanning the sky to the south-east for searchlights and listening for the distant rumbles of guns to show that a column was near. Indignation flared within him at the incompetence of it all. Then a look into the sad eyes of the man before him, a man who had tried his best and who knew that his long and distinguished career had now ended in disastrous failure, rid him of thoughts of blame. What to do now, indeed!
‘You have tried to get help, presumably, from Tientsin?’
‘Oh yes. Only a Chinaman, of course, could get through and all of the reliable native people with me have refused to attempt it. I have to say that I don’t blame them. Reports have come in that Tung Fu-hsiang – a vicious bandit, by all accounts – is torturing and then beheading any of his countrymen found helping the enemy. We shall just have to lick our wounds here until we are strong enough to break out.’
‘Hmm.’ Fonthill thought hard. ‘We can tell by the sound of the guns, of course, that the Tientsin settlements are still holding out. If only we could link the two forces – here and there, I mean – then we would have a much stronger unit to attack the Kansus. Is there hope of reinforcements coming to Tientsin from the sea?’
Seymour’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes indeed, that is my hope. Before I left, the Foreign Powers were being asked to send troops to reinforce us from their possessions in Asia. The Russians, of course, are the nearest.’
‘Good.’ Simon fumbled within his long jacket and produced the rough map that Sir Claude had given him. He moved the teapot and spread the paper out on the table before them. He jabbed the map with a grimy forefinger. ‘You are presumably about here,’ he said, ‘on the riverbank, some six miles or so from the settlements?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the river flows from here downstream directly past the settlements?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Then that is the route for a messenger to follow.’
The admiral shook his head. ‘But a boat would never get past the Chinese, who are watching every inch of the river. Then, of course, there is the question of getting through the ring of Tung Fu-hsiang’s troops who are besieging the settlements.’
‘It should be possible for someone in disguise to get through the Chinese lines around the settlements. We have done it here. And I would not use a boat to go downriver.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I presume you have access to the river?’
‘Yes, after dark.’
‘I have seen that there is plenty of driftwood that floats down the river with the current. It should be possible to pull some such detritus to the shore, take cover under it, in or out of the water, and float downstream, swimming ashore when the settlements are reached – all under cover of darkness.’
The admiral scratched at his beard. ‘It’s ingenious, but highly dangerous, I would have thought. But who would …? You are not suggesting that you would go?’
‘Of course.’
‘But, my dear fellow. You don’t know the territory, you would not be able to control your means of travel, you would not know when you had reached your destination … I can think of a dozen reasons why the whole thing would be ridiculously hazardous.’
Fonthill leant forward. ‘I have to confess, Admiral,’ he said, ‘that I have a vested interest in getting you out of here. You see, I had to leave my wife behind in the Legation Quarter in Peking. I don’t know how long the defenders can hold out there but their resources are running low and unless help comes soon they will be overwhelmed. If that happens, I do not wish to think of what could happen to her. If the fit remnants of your column and the defenders at Tientsin are merged – plus, of course, any reinforcements that have been able to land from the sea – then it should be possible to mount another attempt to relieve our people in the capital. But all this will take time, of course, and we have precious little of that. So I intend to leave tonight.’ He paused for a moment. Then he added slowly but with emphasis, ‘I need to go myself to impress the authorities of the need for haste and for care in the planning of this second relief column. It needs to go quickly – and it must get through.’
The two men sat gazing at each other in silence for a moment. Then the admiral stood. ‘I admire your courage and your determination, Fonthill,’ he said. ‘Of course, I will do all I can to help. Now come over here and I will show you a better map.’
The two walked to the admiral’s desk, where he unrolled a large-scale chart. ‘This arsenal is not marked but we are roughly here on the right bank of the river, as you have indicated. The river flows more or less straight for about three miles, then it gets a bit complicated. Just above the Chinese City of Tientsin here, you see that the river bends back on itself and the Lu-T’ai Canal comes in from the left. Then the river itself becomes like the head of a buffalo, facing north; you come in on the right horn, so to speak, and the left horn goes to your right and becomes the Grand Canal, flowing past the city. You must not be swept into the canal because that takes you away from the settlements, which are down here, sou’-sou’-west, about another mile away. If you can get ashore at the northern extremity of the settlements, here, with the railway station on your left, that would be best. Do you speak French?’
‘Yes. Well, reasonably.’
‘Good, because the French concession occupies the northern end of the settlements and I assume that French sailors will be occupying this part of the defences. Now, do you intend to go alone?’
‘Yes, I cannot ask my companions to undertake such a journey.’
‘Very well. I suggest that you strip down but carry your Kansu clothing tightly wrapped in a waterproof. Rub down if you can find cover on the riverbank and then dress. You can’t wander naked through the lines. Ah, one more thing.’ He rolled the map up again. ‘Just on the edge of the arsenal here, where it comes down to the river, there is a promontory, which juts out and collects driftwood. We should be able to find material for some sort of transport there.’
Simon nodded in appreciation. ‘Splendid! I am most grateful for your help and advice. Now, I would welcome the chance to have something to eat and to talk to my companions.’
‘Good Lord! Of course. I have been most neglectful.’
Moments later, Fonthill joined Jenkins and Chang, who were finishing a plate of rice and meat of indeterminate origin and drinking from large tin mugs of tea. Similar fare was provided for him and, between mouthfuls, he related the story of the relief column to his companions.
‘Barmy, goin’ by train,’ said Jenkins. ‘Did they think they were goin’ on ’oliday to the seaside?’
Chang nodded and concurred. ‘It is jolly regretful that they should go that way.’
Jenkins mopped up the remains of the rice with a crust. ‘What’s the plan now, then, bach sir?’ He looked around him. ‘I could quite enjoy this postin’, out of the sun, like, an’ with a bit of decent somethin’ to eat. I suppose we will stay ’ere for a bit to get our breath back,
so to speak?’
‘Yes, well certainly you two will.’ He then explained his plan to them. Chang, as usual, was imperturbable but Jenkins listened with mounting horror.
‘What!’ he exclaimed, his nose wrinkling and his eyebrows nearly meeting his moustache. ‘We float down that bleedin’ river on a bit o’ wood, with the crocodiles nippin’ at our balls and lettin’ the Chinks take potshots at us? It’s barmy, look you.’
Simon sighed. ‘No, my dear old comrade. We don’t go. I do. Two of us certainly would present a target and, anyway, you can’t swim and you are afraid of crocodiles. I love them. Nice creatures.’
Chang broke his silence. ‘Three too many, cousin. I quite agree. But you need interpreter. And I can swim and I love crocodiles too. So I come.’ He grinned. ‘Mr Jenkins stay behind because he is not family.’
Jenkins blew out his cheeks. ‘If you go, I go. Or I shoot you in the leg, as instructed by Miss Alice. I think this counts under the ’eadin’ of “stupid, brave thing”, or whatever it was she said.’
Fonthill shook his head slowly. ‘I am sorry,’ he said, ‘but I do this one on my own. Three of us are too big a party. And it is far too dangerous, anyway.’
Jenkins leant across and put his hand on Simon’s arm. ‘Now, listen, bach sir,’ he said. ‘This is no time to break up our partnership. You’re as brave as a lion, I know that, and you’re cleverer than General Roberts and General Wolseley put together. But you need me, you know you do. I can do the killin’ while you do the thinkin’. We’re a good team, but not so good, with respect, when we split up. Whatever you say, anyway, I shall come with you.’ He turned to the Chinaman. ‘An’ you, Changy, should stay ’ere an’ write to yer mother.’
Chang, his face set, shook his head. ‘You need interpreter,’ he said. ‘You don’t get through lines without talking. I go, too.’
Simon made one last effort. ‘But you can’t swim and you hate the water,’ he said to Jenkins.
The Welshman shook his head. ‘Who was it that swam … well, sort of … across that river in Matabellyland ’oldin’ on to your ’orse’s tail?’ He turned to Chang. ‘An’ you said, didn’t you, Changy, that there aren’t any crocs in this river?’
Chang nodded affirmatively.
‘There you are, then. What time do we go?’
Fonthill looked hard at his old friend. If there was one thing that Jenkins hated more than heights and crocodiles it was water. For him to volunteer to hang on to a piece of timber and float downstream in a fast-flowing river was the epitome of courage. But for all of his idiosyncrasies, Simon had never met a braver man than Jenkins. It was not like either of them, however, to be sentimental. So he merely smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, very well, but I call this insubordination. We leave as soon as it is dark and when we have managed to pull some driftwood out of the river.’
He shook his head disparagingly. ‘It’s going to be a big load and it looks as though we shall need something like Brunel’s “Great Eastern” now. We don’t take rifles, just the Colt revolver, and we will need to pack our clothes tightly in our waterproofs. Try and get some rest now. It could be a long night.’
* * *
The three dozed intermittently through the day, to a background of artillery and rifle fire. Then, just before dark, Fonthill made his way to the rear wall of the arsenal, that which faced the river. The water lapped at its high walls but, true enough, to the right where the wall turned at right angles, a thin tongue of land jutted out, containing just enough scrub of cover to anyone watching from downriver or the opposite bank. As the water swirled up to it and round, it had collected enough driftwood to found a timber yard. Prominent amongst the detritus was the trunk of a medium-sized tree, which still had branches protruding from the base, to which a few, sad traces of foliage still clung.
Simon nodded his head. That would suffice.
As dusk settled on the river, the three set out from a little post gate near the promontory. With them came Admiral Seymour and four barefooted sailors. Fonthill and his companions had stripped down to their underpants and clutched bundles of their Kansu uniforms, wrapped in their waterproof capes. The warm air engulfed them and even the water was tepid as Chang and the four sailors waded out, their backs bent low, to retrieve the tree.
Seymour clutched Fonthill’s hand. ‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that you go to the right bank when you are abreast of the railway on your left. Be careful not to be swept to your right up the canal as you meet the “buffalo head” of the river. I don’t know who is in charge at Tientsin, but tell him that we can hold out here for quite some time but that, if we hear nothing for a week, we shall try and break out to reach them.
‘Good luck, my dear Fonthill. May God go with you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ They shook hands as the tree trunk was pushed to the bank. Simon stole a glance at Jenkins. Despite the humidity, the Welshman was shivering. He avoided Fonthill’s gaze but waded out and hesitantly climbed onto the trunk, lying prone on it, his legs slightly apart to maintain balance, with one hand clutching his bag and the other holding on to a branch that rose vertically just by his head.
‘That’s good, 352,’ whispered Fonthill. ‘The river is not turbulent so you should be quite safe if you hold on tight and spread your legs apart to keep your balance. Chang, you hold onto that branch to the right and I will take the left side. Kick with your feet if this bloody thing starts to drift to either side. Right. Here we go.’
There was a distinct muttered cry of ‘Oh, bloody ’ell’ as the two swimmers pushed the log away from the strip of land and the current caught it, causing it to roll a little. Then it righted itself and Fonthill and Chang kicked their feet in breaststroke fashion to propel it into the centre of the river. Once there, Simon felt the full surge of the river as they were taken up by the current.
He kept his head low, so that the water lapped his chin, and stole a glance to either side. Campfires glowed on both banks, but they were, of course, more numerous on the right bank, facing the arsenal.
He could make out no figures in the darkness and they seemed to be undetected. Thank goodness the trunk was not yawing and Simon offered up a fervent prayer that Jenkins would continue to lie supine, looking from the bank like some gnarled, knotted protrusion in the middle of the tree.
After the heat of the day, it was not at all unpleasant drifting down the river in the comparative cool of the night. They passed several junks moored for the night on the banks but nothing was moving on the river except them, as either he or Chang kicked out to maintain their position. He soon realised that the young Chinaman was like an eel in the water and, after a time, he left it to Chang to correct their position whenever the need arose.
Fonthhill became aware that their biggest danger would arise if they met shoals of shallow water, for, despite the recent rains, the long drought had severely reduced the river level. Several times he felt his feet kick the bottom as they wandered a little from the deeper channel in midstream. He took comfort, however, from the fact that Seymour had told him that there were no rapids marked on the map above Tientsin.
As they drifted, he began to address the question of when and how they would forsake their tree and gain the riverbank. He had no watch, of course, but he tried to record the position of the pale moon in the dark sky above him and also to assess the speed of the current.
Seymour had estimated that it seemed to be between one and two miles an hour, say one and a half. That meant that, given they were six miles from the foreign concessions, they should be abreast of them after about four hours. Good, that meant that they would arrive still in darkness. How he would successfully navigate the ‘buffalo head’ junction, he had no idea, except to keep to the left side of the river – if, that is, he knew when they had reached the junction, for little could be seen of either riverbank at the moment.
He was startled by a sudden grunt and then a low moaning sound. He let himself slip back to the rear of the trunk and raised an enquiring eyeb
row to Chang, who was on his back and allowing his feet to trail behind him, fluttering in the stream, as though he always used this form of transport to travel on the Pei Ho. The Chinaman grinned and pointed forward. Jenkins, he who was terrified of water, was fast asleep and snoring!
Fonthill crept back up the log and firmly held Jenkins’s ankle. He was anxious that his comrade should not suddenly wake up and upset their makeshift boat. The Welshman came to with a start and Simon hissed, ‘I told you you would enjoy the trip but don’t go to sleep, for God’s sake.’
‘Oh, sorry, bach sir.’
A light flickered from the right riverbank and then, suddenly, a rifle exploded with a crack and a dart of flame. The bullet hissed into the water behind Fonthill, who breathed, ‘Nobody move. Keep perfectly still.’
Another shot was fired which splashed even further behind and then the river lapsed into silence once more. ‘I think he was just amusing himself,’ called Fonthill softly. ‘A bit of nocturnal target practice to amuse himself on the long night-watch.’
‘As long as ’e wasn’t shootin’ at crocodiles,’ grunted Jenkins.
The water seemed to be turning cold and a shiver ran through Fonthill. He estimated that they had been in the river for about three and a half hours, although the moon had now slipped behind what seemed like a thick bank of cloud. Ah, rain would be a good thing! Under its cover they could land easily enough. But the night remained dry.
A new and hitherto hidden danger of the river, as Jenkins had discovered, however, was that their method of transport proved to be soporific and Simon felt himself drifting off to sleep, despite – or perhaps because of – the coldness now of the water. He was rudely stirred from his drowsiness when the trunk hit the bank and was immediately sent swirling around, jettisoning Jenkins in the water with a resounding splash. Fonthill immediately struck out for him and caught him by the arm, as he began to thrash the water.