by John Wilcox
These days, Chang took time to consider his answer to questions, as though in the light of the new understanding of the ways of the world that his experiences of the last few weeks had given him. His recent injuries – particularly his broken nose – had also changed his countenance, making him appear older. So, his head on one side, he pondered the question for a moment before answering.
‘Well, cousin,’ he said, ‘he was, I think, about seven or eight when I was introduced, so to speak, into the family. As a result, there has always been a gap between us. Mainly because of age, of course, but also perhaps because of our ethnic backgrounds.’
‘Yes, Chang, I understand that. Yet it seemed to me that Gerald appeared to be more Chinese than you in many ways.’
Again Chang considered the question. ‘Yes, I can understand that. Perhaps it was because we were both of us, for different reasons, trying to change our … what is the word? … ah yes, our ethnicity to match the surroundings into which we had been placed. Me, you see, to be more English, to match my mother and father, and Gerald to be more Chinese to match his surroundings and the many Chinese friends he had made.’
‘But did you notice that Gerald, perhaps, took this rather further than you? You have never, as far as I can see, become anti-Chinese – although, I hasten to add that I know you do not like the Boxers, and with good reason. But you have never expressed your dislike of the Chinese people in general. Gerald, on the other hand, seems to have become almost virulently anti-British.’
Another pause. Then: ‘Yes, I think that is probably so. He has studied history, you see, and he has become very annoyed at the way the Foreign Powers have, in one way or another, colonised parts of China. And I think he has never forgiven the British in the way that they created the Opium Wars so that they could take their own share of our country and also continue to benefit by the trade in opium.’
‘But you know these things too, Chang, and you seem to have less antagonism towards us than your brother.’
The old smile came back to Chang, lighting up his battered face. ‘Ah, that is because I like you more, you see. And I think your culture is as great as ours – Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on. If you can’t beat the jolly old British, I say, then you should jolly well join them.’
At this, everyone grinned. ‘Blimey, Changy,’ said Jenkins, ‘you’ll be playing cricket soon.’
Chang’s face lightened again. ‘Oh, but I do already, Mr Jenkins. I can bowl this new googly that everyone is talking about. Look, I can show you how you do it—’
Fonthill held up a hand. ‘Not just now, cousin,’ he said. ‘Perhaps some other time.’
The advance continued, as did the hardship, particularly the heat and the lack of water. The Russians and the Japanese seemed to stand it best, despite the fact that the Japanese remained in the lead now and bore the brunt of what fighting was left. On 12th August, they blew up the South Gate of the City of Tungchow and the Chinese garrison streamed away without a fight. The Allies made camp, resting there and replenishing their supplies. The city was the site of a large American mission that had been brutally sacked by the Boxers with much loss of life in the early days of the uprising. One officer suggested that what was left of the mission should be burnt as an example to the local populace. Fonthill was with General Gaselee when the suggestion was made. But the old general demurred.
‘My dear fellow,’ he said, putting a paternal hand on the officer’s shoulder, ‘I do not agree. I intend, in fact, to establish a market here, right away, so that it is operating before we leave. A place where the local populace can come in and trade with us. Now don’t you think that would be better than setting these ruins on fire again? After all, we do not wish to antagonise the three hundred and fifty million people of China, now, do we?’
He turned to Fonthill. ‘Would you be so kind as to ask your Chinese chap – Chang, isn’t it? – to write a suitable notice in the local dialect, asking the people to come in and bring their local produce to sell to us. We will put it up here. So much better, I think, than more burning. Don’t you agree?’
‘Oh, very much so, sir. I will ask him right away.’ He turned away and smiled to himself. How refreshing to meet a military commander who considered the feelings of the civilian population!
Very tentatively, the Chinese who had fled their city began to drift back, bringing rice and other vegetables to trade with the column. Rumours also began to flood into the camped army as it rested at Tungchow. It was said that the general commanding the retreating Chinese forces, the xenophobic Li Ping-heng, had poisoned himself and that Yu Lu, the viceroy of the Chihli province, had blown out his brains – stories that later were found to be true. More concerning for Fonthill, however, was the rumour that the legations had fallen and that all of the foreigners within had been murdered. This was quickly quashed, however, when a cavalry patrol sent out from Tungchow to probe the state of the country between the city and the capital was able to ride virtually to the walls of Peking without meeting any organised resistance. The patrol reported, however, that it could hear heavy gunfire coming from within the city. So the siege continued!
Simon, of course, was vastly relieved but was also full of frustration once again at the seeming sanguineness of the Allied leaders who were resting their troops almost within sound of the Chinese cannon at Peking.
He expressed his concern to General Gaselee, whose own patience was beginning to show signs of fraying at the repeated demands of his fellow countryman.
‘You know, my dear fellow,’ he said, fixing Fonthill with his kindly eyes, ‘we cannot trot up to Peking non-stop. This relief force has done remarkably well to get this far so quickly, with such success and sustaining so few casualties – particularly considering that we are more a not-so-mobile Tower of Babel than a military force. We have marched for some seventy miles in this burning heat and with very poor water supplies and we have defeated the Chinese whenever we have met them. To charge on to Peking without pause for breath or consideration of how we are going to get through those great walls would be the very negation of well-established, military, strategic thinking. And you, as a former soldier and a distinguished servant of the Empire over many campaigns, ought to know that.’
The general’s tone softened and he leant over and put a hand on Fonthill’s knee. ‘I well understand your concern about your wife,’ he went on, ‘but we now know that the defenders are still holding out. In addition to the report of our own cavalry, one or two messages have filtered through from Chinese sources to say that the legations are still manning their barricades, although we understand that they are hard-pressed now.’ He sighed. ‘But the attack on Peking will be by far the most difficult thing we have undertaken. It is vital it succeeds.
‘Now, the council is meeting tomorrow and – I may say to my great relief – we will then formulate a plan in detail to allocate roles and to decide on our tactics for the final attack. We have already decided to press on immediately afterwards and to regroup within three miles of Peking from where we shall spring forward to the attack. I promise that I will report back to you and inform you on those plans, because, as I have already said, I would wish to use your local knowledge. You have already explained that the only way to penetrate the outer walls, given that we have no siege artillery – nor time, for that matter – is to attack the great gates. We shall need you, once we are inside the Chinese City, to show the best way through to the legations. So, my dear Fonthill,’ the eyes under the great bushy brows were twinkling again now, ‘do rest content for the moment, I implore you.’
Simon responded with a slow smile. ‘I accept all that you say, of course, General, and I really am most grateful to you for taking me into your confidence in this way. It goes without saying, of course, that my companions and I will do all that we can to assist in the attack. I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow.’
That night, Fonthill did not sleep well. He had to confess to himself that he had no real confidence in
the ability of the generals leading the relief force to prepare an attack based on military principles rather than national considerations. Each would want to report back to their anxious governments and peoples back home that they and their own troops had performed gloriously in the relief of Peking. There would be honour and medals to be won. And, he reflected sadly, lives to be lost. He just hoped feverishly that one of them would not be Alice’s.
The council took place the next day and lasted for some time. True to his word, Gaselee, whom Simon suspected was beginning to grow in stature among his international colleagues, not only for his seniority in rank but because of his sagacity and experience, summoned Simon to his tent.
He explained that the Russian commander, General Lineivitch – a soldier of similar seniority to Gaselee – had reported that his men were too exhausted to carry out an assault immediately on completing the approach march and he had persuaded the generals that the attack should be carried out in two phases. The column would bivouac three miles from the walls and the army would put in a coordinated attack on the morning of 14th August.
‘Coordinated?’ enquired Fonthill with a lifted eyebrow.
‘Oh yes. For once, we have agreed on the details. Each of the five nations will attack one of the four gates in the walls on the eastern side of the city, swinging round in a synchronised attack—’
Simon interrupted him. ‘Five nations, sir?’
Gaselee smiled. ‘Yes, the tiny French contingent, which, you will remember, had to retreat to Tientsin, have burst their buttons to catch us up and are at this moment very, very proud of themselves.’ His smile broadened. ‘You know what the French are like. So … the plan is as follows: the Russians will attack the Tung Chih Men Gate in the north, on our right flank; and the Japanese will go for the Chi Hua Men, the next one down in the wall, so to speak. They will both attack on the north side of the Imperial Canal. We and the Americans will be on the south side of the canal. The Americans, with the … um … no doubt gallant assistance of the French, will attack the Tung Pien Men and we will go for the Hsia Kuo Men, the southernmost gate in the eastern wall, leading directly into the Chinese City.’
The general’s virtually permanent half-smile lapsed now into a broad grin. ‘You will be glad to hear, Fonthill, that our target is quite near to the Legation Quarter, which, my dear fellow, you will take us to with the utmost alacrity. So, with any luck, we just might be the first nation to free the defenders of the Legation. Not, of course, that being the first in is of any concern to any of us.’
Fonthill did not return the grin. ‘I just hope that we shall be in time, General,’ he said. ‘Those poor folk in the Quarter must be down to eating tree bark and hurling bricks at the Chinese by now.’
Gaselee gave a sympathetic frown. ‘Quite so. Quite so. But I have every confidence, Fonthill, that we shall break through and get there in time. Now, as usual, you will march with us.’ He stood. ‘Good luck, my dear fellow.’
They shook hands. ‘And good luck to you, sir.’
That evening, Gaselee’s ADC, a young man of boundless good humour and, even in China, elegant trousers, approached Fonthill. ‘I say, sir,’ he said. ‘Have you seen this?’ He held out a piece of paper covered in writing in a rough and ready hand.
‘What is it?’
‘Well, as you may have heard, the jolly old French have just marched in – all hundred and fifty or so of ’em. They’re in pretty parlous condition, don’t you know, but their commanding officer – he’s a general, no less, called Frey; he’s the chap who’s marched the poor buggers up and down from Tientsin … but anyway,’ he paused for breath, ‘one of our chaps has caught sight of his orders to his men for the final attack on Peking, although the place is still bloody miles away and we ain’t ready to attack yet anyway.’
‘Yes?’ enquired Fonthill coldly.
‘Yes, well sir, our chap has translated it from the French and this is what it says. I think the little chap thinks he’s Napoleon. Do have a read, sir.’
Simon did so and read:
‘This evening the German, Austrian and Italian columns will lie alongside the French troops. Tomorrow, under the walls of Peking, when the foreign national anthems are played, a complete silence will be maintained; each anthem will be heard with respect. When the French national anthem is played, it will be sung as loudly as possible, in tune, by the whole of the French Expeditionary Corps. Our compatriots and the occupants of the foreign legations beleaguered on the other side of the walls of the Chinese capital will know, when they hear our noble war chant, that deliverance is at hand.’
The ADC regained his paper and chortled again. ‘You see, sir, the French haven’t fired a shot yet and the German, Austrians and Italians are miles away down the road to Tientsin and will never arrive in time. All a bit vainglorious, don’t you think? Eh? What?’
Fonthill recalled the far-from-gallant part played in the defence of the Legation by the French minister, Monsieur Pichon, and couldn’t stifle a smile. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least the Frogs have arrived. Let’s hope that their national anthem frightens the hell out of the Chinese. Eh? What?’
His smile had disappeared as soon as he turned away, however. The attack on Peking was not some point-scoring contest between the Great Powers, for God’s sake! Lives were at stake here, not national glory. He just hoped that the various contingents would work together when it came to attacking the great walled city. The eyes of the world would be upon them.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Alice did not go to her bed on reaching the British Legation after leaving Gerald, for she realised that the man must have time to see his mother, with whom she shared a room, and explain to her why he would be leaving the Legation. Nor did she wake Sir Claude MacDonald, of course, for Gerald must be given his half an hour to pack his belongings and get out. Tomorrow would be time enough to see the minister.
In the end, she crept into the hospital and explained to the duty nurse that she was having trouble in sleeping in the same room as Mrs Griffith (she felt guilty at complaining about her snoring, for her aunt was a deep and silent sleeper) and begged permission to doze on a makeshift stretcher for the night. Comfortable it was not, but better than having to face Aunt Lizzie in these early hours.
She was forced to dissemble again when she met her aunt the next morning. The old lady looked withdrawn and grey and Alice wondered what excuse Gerald had given her. It did not matter, as long as it did not involve her. The young man, of course, was a skilled and compulsive liar.
In fact, Mrs Griffith seemed more concerned about the fact that her niece had not slept in her bed that night. ‘Wherever have you been, my dear?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Aunt, I am sorry. I should have sent a message to you. I altered my shift at the hospital and did night nurse duty, together with Mrs de Courcy. I am sorry if you were worried.’
‘Well, I was. The next time, do tell me, please?’
‘Yes, it was remiss of me.’ She had no intention of telling her aunt about her son’s treachery. Mrs Griffith would have to learn some other way, but what had he told her about his intentions? She tried to be nonchalant. ‘Have you seen Gerald?’ she asked. ‘He … er … wanted to borrow a book of mine.’
For the first time, the old lady looked uncomfortable. ‘Oh, he has gone to stay with a friend in the American Legation, I think,’ she said. ‘He may stay some while, I understand … er … something to do with working together on a project.’ She put up a stick-like hand to her head and pushed away a wispy, grey lock.
Alice felt a sudden surge of affection for her aunt. She was obviously worried about her son and Alice yearned to comfort her. But it was impossible. Better to stick to the lies and brazen it out.
Shortly after breakfast, however – an unappetising bowl of millet porridge – she made her way to Sir Claude’s quarters and requested an interview. He saw her immediately and listened quietly and with surprisingly little emotion to her story.
At t
he end, he nodded. ‘Thank you, Mrs Fonthill. I am grateful to you for telling me all of this. We have always known, of course, that information was somehow getting to the Chinese about our fortifications and so on.’ He gave a sad smile. ‘This place is rather like a colander, you know, in terms of leaking things. With so many Chinese within the legations it was impossible to keep everything tight, so to speak. But I have to say that I have long suspected that young man of being up to something. Lolling about all day and declining to take his part in the defence – it was all rather suspicious, you know. But I couldn’t bring myself to consider him to be an out-and-out traitor. Does his mother know?’
‘No – at least I am fairly certain he has made up some excuse to leave the British Legation.’
‘Very well. I will, of course, keep this matter confidential, but if the young fellow turns up again in the Legation I will have no hesitation in putting him behind bars.’
‘Thank you. But will you respond to the Chinese invitation?’
‘Certainly not.’ His winged, tightly waxed moustache twitched as he allowed himself a dismissive smile. ‘I am quite aware that there are certain elements at the Chinese court – and particularly in the foreign service there – that have always quite genuinely disliked the Boxer Uprising and deprecate the attack on the Quarter, but I could not possibly advise the ministers to trust them to the point that we lay down our arms. Chinese politics are far too volatile and I sense that the hatred of Her Royal Highness the Dragon Lady,’ his smile widened at his daring in using the colloquialism, ‘for we foreigners is far too deep-seated for us to put ourselves completely at her mercy. No, Mrs Fonthill, we hang on here and continue to fight.’
Alice nodded. ‘I am sure you are right. But I sense that conditions here are becoming much worse. Am I right?’
His face returned to its customary solemn mien. ‘I am afraid so. We killed our last pony last night and therefore I am afraid that meat will shortly drop off our menu. I am concerned about the number of casualties that we continue to sustain, our ammunition is running low and I live in constant fear that the Chinese will, as you have mentioned, subject us to a sustained artillery bombardment. Nevertheless,’ and his eyes brightened, ‘our morale is high as is our spirit. For all their shouting and blaring of trumpets, the Chinese are clearly frightened of our firepower and no longer seem to threaten any direct attacks on the perimeter. I could not wish to have better people to man our barricades. No, Mrs Fonthill, we will endure and we will prevail. Yes, we will prevail, I am certain of that.’