The War of the Dragon Lady

by John Wilcox

  ‘Oh yes, cousin. I think so, if no men on top with guns.’

  They waited, scanning the battlements above them, for about five minutes before Jenkins materialised out of the gloom, predictably carrying a rope, coiled round his shoulder. ‘Got it from a Russky,’ he said, gloomily. ‘’Ad to tap ’im on the ’ead to get it, mind you. But it would never take my weight now, would it?’

  Simon tested it. ‘Of course it would,’ he said. ‘Strong as steel.’ He turned to his cousin. ‘Now, Chang. It looks as though this part of the wall is not even patrolled, thank goodness. We will watch down here, rifles at the ready, while you climb. Coil this rope around your head and shoulder. Yes, that’s it. When you reach the top take a good look before you climb onto the walkway. Be very careful. If the coast is clear, climb over, tie the rope firmly around one of the battlements and throw the end down. Jenkins will come up—’

  ‘Oh bloody ’ell.’

  ‘… And then I will follow.’

  ‘What do we do then, Simon?’

  ‘We will make towards the gate and attack from the rear the riflemen firing down. We should be able to take them completely by surprise, coming from out of the darkness behind them.’

  ‘If we can get up ’ere, that is,’ added Jenkins.

  Thankfully, the rain had now stopped but, looking up, the climb still looked daunting, with the bricks glisteningly wet. Even Chang, slim, young and fit, now looked a touch disconcerted. ‘I think I take off my shoes,’ he said. ‘Easier to climb.’

  ‘Don’t worry about anybody appearing up above,’ assured Simon. ‘We will pick them off with our rifles.’ But his fingers were crossed.

  His shoes tied around his neck, the youth took a deep breath, hung his rifle by its sling over his back, reached up with his hands and began the climb. It soon became apparent why he needed to go barefooted. Some of the crevices between the broken bricks were too narrow to take a shod foot and he needed to insert his toes to gain a foothold. Slowly, however, he began to scale the wall, reaching high up with his fingers, pulling himself upwards and then finding, somehow, a precarious foothold with his toes.

  ‘Oh bloody ’ell,’ exclaimed Jenkins, ‘I can’t look at ’im.’

  ‘Then don’t,’ said Fonthill testily. ‘Keep your rifle trained on the top of the wall. If you see a face, make sure you put a bullet through it. With all the firing at the gate, no one will hear. But we mustn’t let anyone get away to raise the alarm.’

  It seemed an eternity to the two men standing below, their rifles at their shoulders and sighted on the embrasures above. But, eventually, Chang reached the top. Holding on to the stone battlement, he poked his head through the opening, looked to left and right and then hauled himself through. Within seconds, the rope was firmly fastened and its end thrown down.

  ‘Right,’ said Simon. ‘Hold the rope tightly, put your feet on the wall, lean back and just walk up. It’s easy.’

  ‘Look, bach sir. You go first and sort out old Changy up there and I’ll follow you up. That would be better.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t. You would just walk away and get yourself killed at the gate. We will need you up there on the walkway when we take on those riflemen. Now, don’t be such a bloody coward. Go on. Up you go.’

  His face pouring with sweat, the Welshman seized the rope, leant back and put his foot against the wall. Immediately, it slipped off and he fell backwards. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘I told you, see. It’s just not possible, look you. I’m too bloody ’eavy, isn’t it.’

  At the back of his mind, Fonthill noted once again how Jenkins’s Welshness increased exponentially to the danger of the situation. ‘Nonsense, you’re just not trying. Go on. We can’t leave Chang on his own up there. He will be shot if we hang about much longer. Look, this is how to do it.’

  Simon demonstrated and took about five steps up the wall, gritting his teeth at the pain shooting up his leg from the burnt ankle. ‘There.’ He slid down. ‘If I can do it with a buggered-up leg, you can do it easily. Get up that bloody wall. Now!’

  Jenkins closed his eyes, seized the rope and tried again. In fact, the strength in his arms and shoulders were such that he could have hauled himself easily up the rope without using his feet but, as it was, he made remarkably good progress – with his eyes firmly shut all the way. At the top, Chang seized his jacket and pulled the Welshman through the embrasure head first, where he lay on the walkway, panting. Then Chang waved for Simon to make the ascent, which he did but not without considerable difficulty, to Jenkins’s evident joy.

  ‘No trouble, then, bach sir, was it, eh?’

  ‘Oh, do be quiet. Pull the rope up, Chang, we might need it again. That’s it. Good. Right, now, a bullet up the spout in each rifle and off we go. We’d better fix bayonets but don’t fire until I give the order. We are going to be severely outnumbered, so surprise is the thing. Stay quiet.’

  Simon checked himself and looked at Chang. The youth was now so self-confident and competent in most things that it was easy to forget that he was only sixteen. Slim and fit, certainly, but not as strong nor as skilled in battle as a professional soldier. They could certainly do with his rifle in clearing the battlements above the gate, but it would be thoughtless and heartless to pitch him into a confrontation that would demand all the experience and guts of a seasoned warrior.

  ‘I think, Chang,’ he said, ‘that it would be better perhaps if you stayed here, fixed the rope again and defended it in case we have to double back and make a quick exit.’

  The young man stared at his cousin in consternation and tears came into his eyes. ‘Oh no, Simon,’ he cried. ‘You do not leave me behind. I can fight. There will be plenty of enemy. You will need me. I don’t stay here.’

  Jenkins interrupted softly. ‘He’s right, bach sir,’ he said. ‘We’re goin’ to need ’im and I couldn’t think of a better bloke to ’ave up there, look you.’

  Chang shot him a glance of gratitude and Fonthill sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said, ‘but stay close. If you get killed your mother will never forgive me.’ He grinned. ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  Rifles at the trail, the three set off trotting along the wide walkway that formed the parapet. Fonthill was surprised that they met no one and then he heard, from the north, firing and shouting. He realised that the Russians’ coup de main had forced the rest of the column to bring forward their attacks and that the other gates were now under fire. The Chinese had obviously concentrated their forces at these entrances to the city, the most vulnerable points in the defences. To their eyes, the walls were unclimbable and the city’s long perimeter therefore needed no defenders all the way round.

  The tall tower above the gate loomed up out of the darkness and the steady rattle of rifle fire showed that the Russians were still pinned down in the courtyard in front of the second gate. A row of Chinamen were lined up, leaning over the parapet as it turned to overlook the courtyard, and were firing down upon the Russians.

  Simon held up his hand and whispered: ‘I’ve just about had enough of killing and I’ll be damned if I’ll shoot men in the back. There’s not many and, given their record on the way here, I reckon we can frighten ’em off. Shoot to kill only if we have to. There’s no cover up here, so line up across the walkway and kneel to present the smallest target. Then fire rapidly, over their heads, when I give the order.’ Then to Chang, ‘That means work the bolt in the breech as quickly as possible, reload and keep firing. Right?’

  The boy nodded, wide-eyed.

  ‘Good. Now kneel, just over their heads, aim, fire!’

  Despite the noise from below, the resultant volley sounded startlingly loud on the narrow walkway and the Chinese riflemen turned, as one man, their eyes wide in fear. One brought his rifle to his shoulder to fire but Jenkins’s second shot caught him in the chest and he fell. Simon and Chang worked their breech bolts and sent two further shots close over the heads of the remainder and they, seeing rifles flashing in the darkness from so close behind them,
turned and fled through the open door of the tower – all except one.

  Made of sterner stuff, this man jettisoned his rifle, drew a sword and hurled himself at Chang, the nearest of the three, who was reloading, as was Fonthill, and in no position to defend himself. It was now that Jenkins, a terrified coward on the wall face, revealed his colours as a warrior.

  The Welshman caught the descending blade with the tip of his bayonet, which shattered. His assailant gave a jubilant yell and brought the sword around in a great sweep, catching Jenkins’s rifle and sending it spinning away. Chang fired but missed. Fonthill worked the bolt of his rifle and found that the round had jammed within the breech. Cursing, he reversed his grip on the gun to attack with the bayonet but he was not needed. Jenkins, as light as a cat, had dodged the next sweep of the sword, bent low and hooked his leg around that of the Chinaman, pushed hard with his elbow and upended him. Chang quickly swept the sword away with his own bayonet and then, Jenkins, in a quick, seemingly effortless movement, picked up the man by the front of his tunic, swept away his legs, hoisted him on his shoulders, whirled around to gain momentum and tossed him over the edge of the parapet.

  The Welshman regained his rifle, wiped the perspiration from his bow and nodded to Chang in appreciation. Then he grinned to Simon. ‘They don’t fight as well as the Zulus, now, do they?’

  ‘Bloody well done, 352. Here, lend me your knife to get this damned cartridge out.’ Fonthill took Jenkins’s blade, inserted it into the breech and flicked out the offending round. The parapet before them was now unmanned, so he ran to the door in the tower. ‘It looks as though this leads down to behind the inner gate,’ he shouted. ‘We’ll go down, fire a volley at whoever is down below and then you, Chang, will open the gate while we keep off the Chinese to give you time. Get behind the bloody thing when it’s open, otherwise those mad Russians will kill us all. Ready? Go.’

  They thundered down the stone, circular steps and came out behind the great doors, which were now being assaulted by some sort of battering ram, fashioned by the Russians. Iron-bound, however, they were showing no signs of breaking. A handful of Chinese away to the right were hastily assembling a machine gun mounted on a tripod, preparing to mow down the attackers if they broke through. Others were trying to erect a barricade.

  ‘Bring down the gunners,’ ordered Fonthill. The resultant volley killed the men at the gun and, as one man, the others at the half-assembled barricade turned and fled, no doubt thinking that the attacking army had somehow scaled the walls. Simon and his comrades were now sole custodians of the gates, which were held in place by two sturdy pieces of timber slotted horizontally into brackets and a great, iron lock in which the gatekeeper had conveniently left the huge key. Two large iron bolts completed the security.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted Fonthill. He was conscious that, on the other side of the gates, the battlements were still manned by armed Chinese. He ran to the door leading to the top of that wall and the tower and found that it, too, had a key in its lock on the inside. He heard someone running down the steps, so he withdrew the key, slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘Now,’ he called, ‘352, see if you can turn that damned great key. Then we’ll lift off these cross-beams and pull back these gates. Stand well behind them as they open or we’ll get shot.’

  With great effort, the key was turned, the bolts pulled back, the beams lifted off and the three struggled to pull back the doors. There was no immediate result. It was as though the Russians were too dumfounded, after all their aggression, to find the gates suddenly opened for them – or perhaps they suspected a trap. Then, after some thirty seconds, there was a great roar and the troops rushed through, immediately spreading out to make their way up the network of streets that opened up before them and from which came the sound of gunfire, showing that the Chinese had by no means given up.

  Fonthill and his comrades were still wearing their Welch Regiment khaki jackets and these, together with Simon’s angry gesticulations, certainly saved them from being shot by the Russians, who had been denied entry for so long and who had lost so many men in the courtyard. The three made their way through the throng of attackers out beyond the walls, to find that the rain had stopped completely and that the dawn was now well established, colouring the sky to the east in shafts of orange and red.

  ‘I thought you wanted to go straight to the British barracks, or whatever they’re called,’ said Jenkins.

  Fonthill shook his head. ‘I reckon that the Russians will have a bit of a fight on their hands to get through the streets of the Chinese City till they get to the Legation. I promised I would lead General Gaselee through the inner walls to the British Legation. Our men are supposed to be attacking the Hsia Kuo Men Gate further down the wall and I want to get there as quickly as I can. It’s this way. We just follow the wall down. Come on.’

  Fonthill seemed to be possessed by a surge of almost demonic energy and his two comrades now followed him doggedly, as the sound of rifle fire intensified from within the city as the Russians began their struggle to penetrate the narrow streets. Then, as they moved southwards the sound died away, making Simon wonder why it was not replaced by that of the British attacking further along.

  The tower above the Hsia Kuo Men soon came into sight and, milling before it, Simon could see the troops of the British contingent in their recognisable khaki, the turbans of the Sikhs standing out in particular. Behind them, a battery of the 12th Regiment, Royal Field Artilley, were unlimbering.

  ‘Good Lord,’ cried Fonthill. ‘There seems to be no firing.’ They pushed their way through the troops to where they could see a knot of officers on horseback, prominent among them the portly figure of Lieutenant General Sir Alfred Gaselee.

  ‘Where the hell have you been, Fonthill?’ demanded the general. ‘I thought you were anxious to get in. We’re just about to attack and get these damned gates down.’

  As briefly as he could, Simon explained what had happened and that the Russians had now broken through. He looked up at the seemingly undefended line of battlements before them.

  ‘I think it’s quite possible,’ he said, ‘that the Chinese are not defending these gates, suspecting that our attacks will be launched on the gates in the eastern walls, the direction from which we have approached the city.’ He cast a glance at the light cannon now unlimbering. ‘And, with respect, sir, it is going to take you some time to bring those gates down – they’re iron-clad, you see – with those guns.’

  ‘Well, is there any other way in?’

  Fonthill looked at Chang. ‘I think so.’ He explained how they had climbed the walls on the eastern face. ‘Let Chang here find a way up, while we make sure he’s not fired on from up top, then he can let that line down and I suggest that your Sikhs could be up that wall in a flash – as long as they took their boots off.’

  The general’s white eyebrows descended in a frown and he turned to his staff. ‘What d’yer think, eh?’

  There was a general chorus of approval and Chang once again was despatched to find a convenient crack in the wall. No Chinese appeared on the ramparts, although rifle fire could now be heard more clearly from within the city. Within minutes, Chang was lowering his rope down and a whole group of bootless Sikhs, their dark faces split by great watermelon grins at the unusual nature of the task given them, were forming a line to climb up the wall. Some shots were exchanged as they disappeared from sight but it was not long before the great gates of the Hsia Kuo Men were being grindingly pulled back. The British contingent of the relief force had gained admission to the outer Chinese City of Peking with the exchange of only five shots and without sustaining a single casualty.

  The strange tranquillity was broken, however, as soon as they began forming up, inside the gates.

  ‘Which way, Fonthill?’ cried Gaselee, astride his horse.

  ‘To the right, sir. But I suggest that you and your staff dismount because you will present too obvious a target if we meet trouble
within these narrow streets.’

  Trouble, in fact, was not late in arriving. Uniformed troops of the Imperial army were to be seen running towards them down several streets and an irregular firing began. The alarm had obviously been given and soldiers from the Imperial City, only a few kilometres away, had been summoned.

  The British contingent consisted of the Royal Welch Fusiliers, the Bengal Lancers, 1st Sikhs, 7th Rajputs and 24th Punjab Infantry, the Chinese-based Weihaiwei Regiment, the 12th Regiment Royal Field Artillery, the Hong Kong Artillery and a small detachment of Royal Engineers. But it was the Indian infantry now who led the way through the winding streets, firing from doorways, occasionally charging with the bayonets to clear specific knots of dedicated resistance, but all the time moving forward, towards the inner wall which marked the southern boundary of the British Legation.

  Fonthill, Jenkins and Chang were with them, Chang pointing the way whenever there was doubt. This was urban fighting, street warfare, and among the most dangerous form of conflict in the world, for the range was short, the options for cover limited and the terrain narrow and constricted. But the Rajputs and the Sikhs, accustomed to putting down rebellious conflagrations in the towns of the British Raj, were good at it: light on their feet, flitting from doorway to doorway like cat burglars and as brave as lions.

  Nevertheless, the Chinese gave ground reluctantly, firing steadily as they retreated and making Fonthill wonder why this kind of sturdy resistance had not been met on the march to Peking, where the countryside offered so many more opportunities for ambush and counter-attack.

  The danger from Chinese rifle fire in the narrow streets was compounded by fragments of masonry and brickwork that flew from dwellings on both sides as bullets went astray. Fonthill was cut in the cheek by one such as a man in a white suit shot at him from an upper storey. He responded quickly with his own rifle but the man ducked away. Across Simon’s brain flashed the thought that it was strange to see a Chinaman dressed in European clothing fighting with the Imperial troops, and then it disappeared as he strained to see ahead to catch a precious glimpse of a legation flag. In fact, this street alley fighting was so perilous that his mind had had little time to dwell on the agonising questions: were the legations holding out and, most of all, was Alice still alive?