by John Wilcox
‘Yes. Shouldn’t be difficult. Skirt the Chinese City but follow the river. We wouldn’t need an army but Seymour has plenty of wounded to move. We would want probably about a thousand troops who could move quickly, I would think, if you can spare ’em.’
‘Hmm. Probably have to. We can’t leave Seymour holed up. And we had better act quickly to take advantage of the fact that the Kansus are movin’ about. Now, let’s get you something to eat and wear.’
‘Clothes for my two companions also, please, Brigadier.’
‘Of course.’
Dorward acted with commendable speed. Early the next morning, Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang – the latter pair had refused to be left behind – set off at the head of a mixed force of men, most of them Russian, who streamed out of the settlements. The column was under the command of a Russian, Colonel Shirinsky, whose mounted Cossacks ranged ahead and either side of the infantry, who themselves marched in quick time. They were immediately opposed by a force of Imperial troops, but a determined charge by the Cossack vanguard, wielding lance and sword, scattered the enemy. The column advanced at speed and with a sense of purpose that impressed Fonthill.
The Colonel took it in a swing away from the walls of Tientsin City and then back again to the river and soon they saw the huge redoubt that was the arsenal. With a sigh of relief, Simon saw that the white ensign of the British navy still fluttered high above the walls and he joined the squadron of Cossacks who, pennants flying from their lances, cantered up to the great wooden door.
Within moments, he was introducing a weary but relieved Seymour to the red-cheeked Russian colonel.
‘Thank God you got through, Fonthill,’ said Seymour, pumping his hand. ‘Plain sailing, was it?’
‘Oh absolutely, Admiral. Pleasure cruise, really.’
While the Cossacks ranged the surrounding country, now remarkably clear of the besieging Kansus, the remnants of the original relief column were gathered, carts were loaded with supplies and ammunition from the arsenal’s stores, and the wounded who could not march were led out on stretchers.
The journey back was slower, of course, but the column was remarkably unhindered, whether because of the fearsome reputation already established by the Cossacks on their advance on the settlements, or because the bulk of the Imperial troops had retreated to bolster the defence of the Chinese City, Fonthill could not decide. He was merely grateful that the first stage in the long march to relieve Peking had been successfully concluded.
As he marched at the head of the column with Jenkins and Chang, each of them arrayed in ill-fitting blue uniforms supplied by the Tientsin Office of Customs and carrying army issue rifles, his mind concentrated on the task ahead. How could he, a comparatively unknown civilian, move the massive diplomatic bureaucracy that surrounded the Allied army in the settlements to address the question of relieving Peking? Without a central point of control and chain of command to work with, how could he instil urgency and give focus to this loose collection of fighting men? Well, he shrugged, a start had been made, anyway.
It seemed almost as though the forces besieging the settlements had deliberately parted to let the Seymour remnants back within the barricades, for, the day after their return, the Chinese closed in again and launched a series of attacks along the perimeter. For more than two weeks the defenders fought savagely, encouraged by the new reserves of ammunition provided by Seymour’s men and the fact that new men had arrived to reinforce those manning the low mud walls and bales of merchandise that formed the perimeter.
It was a hugely frustrating time for Fonthill, who, with Jenkins and Chang, took his turn at the barricades.
‘This is a bit of a – whatchercall it – stalepiece, ain’it?’ observed Jenkins, wiping his brow with a piece of fine silk that protruded from the bale over which he was firing.
‘No, I think the word is “stalemate”, is it not, cousin?’ asked Chang. ‘They can’t get in and we cannot get out. It is not exactly checkmate, you see, Mr Jenkins, because either side can actually move, so—’
‘Whatever it is,’ growled Fonthill, ‘I’ve had enough. I’m going to see Dorward.’
That evening he bearded the brigadier. Simon presented once more Sir Claude’s message, with its plea for urgent action. The soldier nodded.
‘There has been action, of a sort,’ he said. ‘We have formed a sort of council here, representing all of the powers involved, and I have informed them of your message. I should add that Lieutenant General Sir Alfred Gaselee, a most distinguished British soldier, is due to land at Taku any day, I understand, to take charge of troops here. At the moment, the trouble is that we have not been able to agree on an immediate course of action, when we have been under such pressure from the Chinese besieging us. But, look here.’ He leant across his desk. ‘There is a meeting tonight. Please come and present Sir Claude’s message yourself. That should stimulate something.’
‘Very well,’ said Fonthill. ‘But I warn you, I shall speak candidly.’
It was, felt Simon, a strange meeting. To a background of artillery fire, like a continuous and not-so-distant drum roll, eight men filed in to sit around Dorward’s large table: Dorward and Seymour, two Russians, a Frenchman, an American, a German and a tiny Japanese, each dressed in the uniform of his country. With the exception of the Japanese, every man was bearded and each face reflected the strain of battle. Fonthill had dreaded that the language used would be French, the tongue of diplomacy, but everyone agreed to speak English. He had also feared that there would be a long agenda to get through before he was allowed to speak, but he was called upon to address the meeting immediately. Most of them, he reflected with satisfaction, were men of action, after all.
Dorward introduced him and gave a brief summary of how he and his two companions had arrived at Tientsin. Then Simon began.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, looking round at the heavy, jowled faces, ‘you have more than ten thousand men here, with the promise of more to come from the coast. You are fighting a defensive battle to protect the settlements. You have been able to evacuate most of the women and children of the settlements to Taku. You are fighting stoutly and you have been given fresh ammunition and supplies from Admiral Seymour’s column. With the exception of the quick expedition to the arsenal, however, you have not moved from behind your barricades. It is time you did so.’
There was a sharp intake of breath, but he continued.
‘I left Peking just over two weeks ago, getting here, as you have heard, with some difficulty. I did so because I was asked to bear a message from Sir Claude MacDonald, the British minister there, desperately pleading for help from you.’ He looked around the table at each man in turn and then went on, emphasising his words.
‘There are approximately two thousand civilians, including women and children and most of them Chinese, crowded into the legations there, sheltering, as you are here, behind makeshift barricades and walls. The difference is, though, that when I left, there were only some three hundred able-bodied men defending those walls. The little hospital there is full, the defenders are running low on ammunition and are reduced to half rations. The water they drink is warm and brackish. The enemy surrounding them is well armed and equipped with modern artillery. If they wished, they could reduce the whole Quarter to rubble with their cannon, but for some reason they do not do so, probably fearing the retribution that would fall on them from the Great Powers – that means from you, gentlemen.
‘For weeks now, the defenders there – led by the formal representatives of your countries – have looked to you for relief. Their situation is rapidly becoming desperate. Whatever the circumstances here, you must set up a second relief column without delay. If you don’t and if the Chinese break through and pour into the Legations, then the watching, civilised world will condemn you accordingly.
‘It will take time to advance to Peking, through hostile country and without the service of the railway. But it can be done, following the river northwards. There is
no time to be lost. You must break out of here now.’
He finished and sat back amidst heavy silence. Then the German, a large man with kindly eyes, spoke. ‘Ve cannot move vizout taking the Chinese City. To leave vizout taking it vould leave the settlements at zeir mercy.’
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is a ’uge fortress. Do we ’ave the men to conquer it? Those big walls …?’
The question hung in the air. ‘Who would command the expedition?’ enquired one of the two Russians.
‘There must be a unified command,’ declared Dorward. ‘I suggest the country which provides the most men should provide the commander. And that,’ he gave a deferential half-bow to the Russian, ‘would be you, Admiral.’
‘Ach no,’ said the Russian, with a quick glance towards the silent Seymour, ‘we need a soldier this time. You are the senior army man here, Dorward. You do it. You will have the Russian support.’
There was a low murmur of agreement around the table. Fonthill felt ambivalent. At least they had agreed to do something, but he had seen the size of the fortress that was Tientsin City. To break through those walls would need a serious besieging force. Could the besieged suddenly become the besiegers? How would they do it? But Dorward was speaking again.
‘Very well, gentlemen, I am gratified to have your confidence. I take it that we are all agreed that we must take Tientsin City before we can think of mounting an expedition for the north?’
There were nods of agreement from around the table.
‘Thank you. I will begin making a plan of attack immediately. Could each of you let me have, within the hour, a note of the forces you could provide for the attack? We must not, of course, leave the settlements unprotected and I suggest that, say, five thousand good men will be all that is needed. If we are to strike, we should do so quickly. There can be no suggestion of laying siege to the city. We must make a concentrated breakout which will turn into sudden, frontal attack on the gates. Let us meet again at eight tomorrow morning, when I shall present my plan to you.’
With that, the delegates stood, nodded to each other cordially, like city councillors breaking up after a municipal meeting, and departed, as the cannon still crackled in the background.
‘Thank you, Brigadier,’ said Fonthill. ‘I hope to God you can take the city, for failure means that the legations must surely fall. Will five thousand be enough, do you think?’
Dorward tugged at his beard and smiled. ‘Oh, I believe so. I have changed my mind. With the reinforcements we have received within the last few weeks and the way we have been able to repulse the attacks on the line in the last fortnight, I am convinced now that we can break out. Like a huge sortie, in fact. The city is just a couple of miles away and we can be upon it before the Chinese have had chance to prepare themselves. We now have some excellent men here in whom I have faith. You spoke well there, Fonthill. You persuaded us all.’
‘Thank you. May Jenkins and I join in the attack? We don’t want to kick our heels here.’
‘Of course.’
Fonthill overruled Chang’s protestations at being left behind – ‘You are only sixteen, dammit, and although you have behaved magnificently in helping us to get here, you are not a soldier and this will be infantry work’ – and he and Jenkins fell in with the 2nd Battalion of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, both of them delighted to be reunited with a Welsh regiment after so many years.
The attack took place on the second day after the meeting of the military leaders and, initially, the breakout went impeccably according to plan. Simon and Jenkins were with the British and French, held in reserve to the Japanese and Americans who led the attack, which was launched towards the South Gate in the walls, while units of Russians and Germans harassed Chinese positions on the north bank of the river.
The Japanese broke cleanly through the Chinese lines around the settlements, scattering the Kansus in their path and making Fonthill feel that a breakout could have been achieved long before this. The little men trotted along impassively behind their long bayonets, making for the South Gate, which faced the settlements.
The city, in effect, was one large box, formed by its stout walls, and with one gate on each of its sides. Without siege artillery, there was no way that the attackers could breach the walls of the city and the attack was therefore concentrated completely on the South Gate. The fault in this tactic, however, soon presented itself. The only way to reach the gate was by advancing along a causeway that ran in a straight line for approximately a mile, spanning open country crossed with canals, patches of marshy bog, irrigation channels and lagoons. The Japanese leading the attack, therefore, presented an easy target to the defenders firing down from the top of the walls. It was even worse for the 9th United States Infantry, newly arrived from fighting the guerrillas in the Philippines, who had to wade through the marshes to the right of the causeway.
Fonthill shook his head. ‘Dorward is an idiot,’ he said. ‘This is just offering men up for slaughter. He should have attacked at night, targeting at least two of the gates. God help those Japanese.’
‘Amen,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘To be honest, bach sir, I’ve never ’ad much faith in British generals, look you. What with Ishywander and all that lot in Zululand.’
‘The man must never have commanded in battle in his life – he must have been stuck out here throughout his career. He’s made an elementary mistake. We could be bogged down here for weeks before we get a chance to march on Peking. Damn and blast the bloody fool!’
As they watched, the fire from the ramparts of the city walls intensified and the Japanese began dropping like flies. To compound the matter, the Americans, struggling in the marshes, began moving to their left to find firmer ground on the causeway. Orders were shouted and the British and French began moving up behind the lead troops, deploying as best they could to deliver supporting fire upon the Chinese on the walls.
Fonthill and Jenkins were among the latter, crouching in the long marsh grass, attempting to target the distant and diminutive figures behind the puffs of smoke, high on the walls. The sun beat down and the humidity, intensified by the moisture engendered by the dykes and irrigation channels surrounding them, caused the perspiration to course down their foreheads and into their eyes. Their discomfort was compounded by the flies that rose from the marsh and settled on them like black snowflakes. They spent as much time beating them off as aiming and firing their rifles.
And so the day wore on, with the Japanese and Americans retreating in the face of the strong defensive fire and then surging ahead intermittently, only to fall back again.
As dusk approached, Simon met a sweating Dorward. ‘Do you have any artillery you can bring to bear, Brigadier?’ he asked.
‘Only a couple of eighteen-pounders that we could ill spare from the defences of the settlements. Can’t get ’em near enough to make a difference.’
‘May I make a suggestion, sir?’
The two men eyed each other. They were roughly the same age and they might have been from similar backgrounds, except that Fonthill had formally left the army twenty years ago and Dorward, of course, had ploughed his way upwards through the officer ranks, albeit mostly in the Far East.
‘You can suggest what you like, Fonthill. But may I enquire about your experience in situations such as this?’
‘Of course you may. I served with the 24th of Foot and was at Isandlwana and Rorke’s Drift in the Zulu affair. I did intelligence work with Roberts in Afghanistan and was in Kabul when the Residency was attacked. I was able to help Wolseley with his attack on the bePedi at Sekukuni and then at el-Kebir in Egypt. I commanded a couple of riverboats for Gordon at Khartoum, not that that did him much—’
Dorward held up his hand. ‘Good Lord! Now I know who you are, Fonthill. You’re the chap who got through to Gordon at Khartoum and was with Rhodes on the invasion of Matabeleland.’
Fonthill grinned. ‘Well Rhodes wasn’t exactly there, you know. He had a habit of turning up after the f
ighting was over.’
‘Yes, well even so.’ Dorward mopped his face with his handkerchief. ‘I certainly accept your experience. Frankly, I am not sure what to do next. The Japs and the Yankees have taken a terrible beating. I’ve lost something like seven hundred men.’
‘Yes. This looks a tough nut to crack. If I may say so, I think a frontal attack in daylight is ill-advised.’
‘So. What do you suggest?’
‘Wait until it is completely dark. Then, get the Germans and Russians to make a fuss, as though we’re going to attack the North Gate. Have you got any sappers with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And dynamite, too?’
‘Well, I believe so.’
‘Good. Make a big thing about retreating back down the causeway now, in the failing light. I think the Japanese and the Americans are probably a bit spent, by the look of it, so let them fall back. Then bring up the Welch Regiment quietly but hold them back. Give me enough dynamite to blow that bloody big South Gate open, then attack along the causeway with the Welshmen – they’re damned good soldiers but they’ll have to run fast – and break through what’s left of the gate.’
‘What? You would plant the explosives?’
‘Yes. Well, I would take my man Jenkins with me to complete the job in case I get knocked over. It needs two men. Any more would probably be spotted, even in the dark. I do think it’s the best plan, Brigadier.’
‘Very well. Come with me and we’ll talk to the sapper major.’
Simon explained the plan to the major, who listened, nodded and produced ten sticks of dynamite, wrapped innocuously in paper in two packets of five, each eight inches long and about one inch in diameter.
The major, a short, stout man with impressive moustaches, was pompously proprietorial about his explosives. ‘Look here,’ he said, ‘this stuff is extremely dangerous.’
‘Well,’ muttered Jenkins, who had come along to be briefed, ‘I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it, if it’s goin’ to blow somethin’ up, like.’