The Stone Dragon

by Peter Watt

  John was seriously considering dragging his son from the compound when Liling gripped John’s arm.

  ‘Soldiers are coming!’ she shouted, pointing to the stream of armed men returning to defend the Fu.

  ‘Someone has shown some sense,’ John muttered, releasing his grip on the sleeve of his son’s shirt. ‘All we have to do is pray that the rebels haven’t realised that we have dropped our defences.’

  John’s prayer was answered. For an unknown reason the Boxers had not pressed home an all-out attack on the fleeing soldiers.

  ‘We will burn the barbarians out.’

  Tung listened to the closing words of the impassioned speech by the commander of the Boxer contingent assembled in a deserted warehouse well back from the besieged quarters of the European powers. Dust filtered down onto the colourfully dressed armed warriors from the rafters where doves cooed.

  Yung Lo was an impressive man. He was in fact a general of the dowager Empress’s Imperial army, and a battle-scarred veteran of campaigns waged against warlords in the name of the Imperial court. His voice echoed in the spacious building that once housed goods destined for Europe.

  The situation of the siege needed to be resolved quickly as Tung, like many of his comrades, was aware that even now a multinational relief force under the command of a British admiral was fighting its way towards Pekin. Despite the logic in the proposed scheme Tung worried about his friends inside the legation compounds.

  ‘Your commanders have been issued their orders and so you are dismissed to carry them out in the name of the divine Empress.’

  Although Tung had been given command of his own contingent of Boxer warriors he had not as yet committed them to the fight against the Europeans. This would be his first action in Pekin for the cause. The cry of ‘Sha! Sha!’ that rose from the voices of the five hundred Boxers assembled following the Chinese general’s speech caused the doves to take flight and search for a more peaceful place to roost.

  Commanders directed their men to assemble for the issuing of flammable materials to accomplish the task of setting the legation compounds ablaze and Tung prepared himself to issue his orders to his own men.

  ‘Tung,’ Yung Lo called out, walking with precise strides towards him. Tung turned to the military commander and waited obediently.

  ‘Orders have been issued, but there is one very special task I am assigning you and your men, which I have not informed the other commanders of for reasons I think you will understand. I have assigned to your men the task of setting the Hanlin alight,’ Yung Lo said, eyeing the former Shaolin priest square in the face.

  ‘The Hanlin!’ Tung replied, attempting to stifle his horror. ‘But it is our most precious place of learning, honourable general.’

  The Hanlin, a beautifully painted pavilion, housed the most ancient Chinese texts and was as much a university for the Chinese as Oxford was for the English. Filled with silk-covered volumes of writings by China’s masters, its shelves contained the very heart and soul of China itself. The task given to Tung for his men to destroy such a place was almost beyond comprehension.

  ‘It is also adjoining the British legation,’ the general replied. ‘We are at war and the Hanlin represents our past. What we do now is for the present and future. We must not look backwards. Besides, its burning will bring a lot of the Europeans out into our lines of fire when they attempt to put out the fire. If nothing else they have a sentimental if foolish desire to see that we keep our past. I suspect that this desire is motivated by the idea we are a backward people steeped in the knowledge of past glories.’

  ‘Honourable general, I am as loyal to the cause as any man,’ Tung attempted to protest. ‘But will not the mandarins of the court themselves object to this task. After all, it is they who resist change to our old ways.’

  The tough general glared icily at Tung, weighing up the young man’s commitment to total war. ‘Your uncle, General Tung, is a very old friend of mine,’ he said quietly. ‘We have shared many a campfire on the barren snow plains of this land fighting for the people. He has told me of your remarkable achievements in the recent past. But he and I suspect that you may be working for the imprisoned false emperor with his subversive ideas of progress. To complete this task will prove that you are totally committed to our revolution.’

  Tung was trapped. It was true that he was committed to the cause of freeing China from the invaders, but it was also true that he was loyal to the rightful Emperor and his ideals of a nation freed by progressive ideas. Had not the Emperor, the Son of Heaven, predicted that this new European century would see the rise of China, to take its rightful place among the nations of the world. The general had set Tung a test of his loyalty. The burning of the Hanlin would not be popular with many of his own men.

  ‘I will do it,’ Tung finally ceded.

  ‘Good,’ the general said. He turned on his heel, leaving the odious task to a man he would rather have beheaded, if it were not for loyalty to his old comrade-in-arms, General Tung.

  • • •

  The evening air was muggy and the flickering candlelight cast shadows on the sketched disposition of the legation laid out on the table. Robert had used his revolver to hold down one end of the curled-up sheet of paper while the candle stand kept down the other end.

  John leaned over the map Robert had drawn and scanned for a weak point in what the English officer guessed, at best, were the Boxers’ current siege lines.

  ‘Since the debacle today our lines of defence have shrunk somewhat,’ Robert said, pointing with the end of a long cigar at his map. ‘That could be a good thing. We have abandoned the Dutch and Belgian legations and only have seven legations to defend. The Austrians and Italians stupidly lost their grounds and according to my calculations we are now defending a rectangular area approximately 700 by 750 yards. However, in our sector we are most vulnerable to an attack at these points,’ Robert continued, pointing to the north of the British legation where the ancient Hanlin Academy connected with the legation. ‘And here,’ he indicated, shifting his cigar pointer to the south and west where lay the Imperial Carriage Park and the Mongol Market.

  John examined the places on the map depicting the European legation compounds, and could see that the defended area included the American and Russian legations, overshadowed by the massive Tartar Wall at one end of Legation Street, while the French were at the opposite end. In the south lay the British legation and the continuation of the great Tartar Wall. At its centre were the German, Japanese and Spanish legations as well as the popular Hotel de Pekin and a mix of banks, shops and residential houses.

  ‘Where do you suspect the rebels are weakest?’ John asked, continuing to peer at the map under the flickering light.

  ‘Nowhere,’ Robert answered bluntly. ‘At least that is my guess. We don’t have enough intelligence to spot any breaks in their lines.’

  John straightened his back and stood back from the table. ‘I have to go tonight,’ he said. ‘My daughter has been long enough in the hands of those bastards.’

  ‘Mr Wong, I would advise against any attempt to enter the city at this stage.’

  ‘The longer I wait the less chance my daughter will be alive – if this relieving force of yours ever arrives at all,’ John replied with a growl.

  Robert sighed, smoke drifting on the humid evening air like a shroud around their heads. ‘If you insist, all I can suggest is that you use this part of our defences to enter the city,’ he said, pointing at a section of the defensive line. ‘Reports that I have received indicate the least amount of sharpshooting and enemy activity at this point.’

  ‘I will leave sometime after midnight,’ John said.

  ‘I will be at the barricade to ensure that you don’t get shot by one of our own,’ Robert offered. ‘I pray with all my heart that you find Naomi. Good luck and good hunting, Mr Wong,’ he said stiff ly, offering his hand. ‘I will still be on duty at the barricade when you return Naomi to us all.’

  Ro
bert picked up his revolver and holstered it to return to his post on the barricades, leaving John to snatch a little sleep before rising to fetch and brief Kai.

  Together John and Kai made their way through the dark streets towards a burning lantern set at the barricades to provide illumination against any attempted sneak attack. Soldiers wearing the uniforms of many nations manned the improvised walls, some sleeping while others crouched awake behind the motley items used as sandbags.

  Robert emerged from the shadows with a British NCO. ‘Sergeant Higgins will brief you on the best possible route out of here,’ Robert said, referring to the small but tough-looking British NCO beside him. John could see from the ribands on his uniform that the moustachioed sergeant was a veteran of many colonial campaigns.

  ‘Yer best bet is to use the shadows over there,’ the sergeant briefed, indicating a side of the street to their right. ‘From there yer could chance duckin’ into a ’ouse an makin’ yer way back through the laneways. Does yer heathen friend know the city?’ he asked, referring to Kai.

  ‘He does, sergeant,’ John replied.

  ‘Good thing then,’ the sergeant continued. ‘Cos all I could see today was that the only part of the street free of the heathens was where I said.’

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ John said.

  ‘Very good, sah,’ the British NCO answered and John could detect a slight note of contempt. No doubt he had observed John as being ‘not quite a white man’ and therefore not a gentleman that Mr Mumford should be assisting.

  Without another word John moved away into the dark behind the barricades, followed by Kai and Robert. When they came to a small opening in the defences John and Kai pushed their way through into the vacant street beyond any illumination cast by the lanterns at the barrier. Only the vague silhouette of the buildings stood out against the starlit night.

  Even with Kai very close by John suddenly felt very much alone. It was as if he had passed between the earth and the heavens but was in a place called limbo.

  ‘This way,’ Kai hissed, taking the lead as they encountered the first stone buildings on the street. ‘House got yard.’

  In the darkness John could barely make out Kai’s back and his straining ears picked up the muffled sound of movement beyond the walls. Kai also heard the sound and froze. It seemed that they were only a wall width away from the enemy.

  John was tempted to draw his revolver from under his shirt but knew his best chance, albeit a slim one, of breaking through the enemy lines was with Kai bluffing that they were sympathisers of the Boxer cause.

  ‘No good,’ Kai whispered in a frightened voice. ‘We go back.’

  ‘No,’ John said in a low but forceful tone. ‘We go on.’

  Kai’s expression of fear turned to terror when a figure emerged unexpectedly from the dark nearby and cried out a warning that was followed by the sharp report of a rifle firing.

  John felt himself being flung back as if he had been punched in the chest by a giant. He was vaguely aware that Kai had already disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘Shot,’ John mumbled to himself. He was fighting to stay on his feet and fumbled for his revolver. Loud voices only feet away joined the confusion around him and he was aware that a burning brand of fire was spiralling through the night sky, landing in the street in a scattered blaze of embers and lighting up where he stood.

  Three Boxers armed with rifles were standing only yards away and a volley of shots from the barricades felled one of them, just missing John with the ominous crack around his head.

  ‘Run, old boy!’ a distant voice called to John, who was fighting a battle with the numbing pain in his chest.

  ‘Over here!’

  John forgot about attempting to retrieve his pistol to fight it out with the now-disappearing Boxers falling back behind the buildings. Instead, he turned and stumbled towards the barricades.

  Like a drunken man he staggered, fighting to keep his feet as he closed the distance between himself and the exposed faces of the defenders who were cheering him on to safety. While bullets whipped around him the defenders laid down fire to cover John’s retreat from the enemy. But he did not make it. Within reach of the improvised sandbag wall, John pitched forward into oblivion.

  Strong hands dragging him … Nothing, then a lazy buzzing sound … Nothing. Hard to breathe and now a low moaning sound mingled with a soothing voice of a woman, as if crooning to a baby … Nothing again until the tickling but annoying sensation of very tiny feet on his face.

  Thirst. John experienced a terrible thirst and croaked, ‘Water.’

  ‘Doctor,’ the now familiar woman’s voice called.

  John opened his eyes to stare up at a fly-specked white ceiling. He was aware that he was lying on a stone floor and that flies buzzed around his head. The pain in his left side caught him when he attempted to sit up and he was restrained by a gentle hand of the woman kneeling beside him.

  ‘I am Miss Condit Smith,’ she said in an American accent. ‘And you should remain still until Dr Poole has a chance to examine your wound.’

  John did not reply but turned his head to see a tall, well-built, bearded man lying beside him in a pool of blood. John recognised his blood-soaked uniform as that of a Russian Cossack. The young soldier’s face had a ghastly green tinge and his eyes were barely open.

  ‘Poor man,’ Polly said, observing John’s gaze. ‘He was shot through the chest yesterday and the staff do not expect him to live.’

  ‘A hospital?’ John whispered hoarsely.

  ‘You are in a hospital,’ Polly answered. ‘You were brought in last night from the barricades.’

  ‘Shot where?’ John asked, suspecting that he too had a chest wound.

  ‘The doctor will speak to you,’ Polly evaded, returning her attention to the young soldier.

  The doctor, accompanied by a young lady wearing a long, flowing dress, squatted beside John and grasped his wrist to check his pulse. John hardly took any notice of the doctor’s examination but found himself staring into the beautiful, slightly sloping, green eyes of the young woman standing beside the doctor. She had a lustrous pile of chestnut hair framing a very pale face of flawless complexion and John guessed that she was in her early thirties.

  ‘I doubt if your wound will take you the same way as our Russian friend,’ the doctor said bluntly. ‘The bullet smashed a couple of ribs but exited. All we have to do is avoid septus and you will be up on your feet in no time. Miss Gurevich will keep an eye on you, Mr Wong. Your son has been assisting us with our work here and tells me that you have had worse in the past,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘You can allow him to drink now, Miss Gurevich,’ the doctor said, standing to speak to the young woman beside him. ‘I will be back to examine you and change the dressing in around a couple of hours from now,’ the doctor said in conclusion, leaving John in the company of two young ladies and the dying Cossack.

  ‘You must allow me to help you bend your head so that you may sip the water,’ the Russian woman said. ‘I am not a nurse, and this is new to me.’

  John allowed the woman to place her hand under his head and help him half sit to swallow the warm, brackish water poured from a clay cup. The pain when he was moved caused John to wince, closing his eyes, but he did not cry out.

  ‘You speak very good English,’ John said through gritted teeth.

  ‘I am a governess,’ Miss Gurevich said, lowering John’s head to the floor. ‘My employers have always been Americans, Mr Wong. I have lived as long in America as I have in my own country.’

  ‘So you are a nurse now,’ John commented, attempting to ignore the racking pain in his chest.

  ‘For the moment,’ Miss Gurevich replied.

  ‘Will you be caring for me,’ John asked, ‘as Miss Condit Smith seems to be doing for your countryman there?’

  John’s suggestion brought a scowl to the woman’s beautiful features. ‘He is a Cossack,’ she said, dismissing the dying man without much sympathy.


  For a moment John was puzzled about her dismissal of the man but suddenly he understood.

  ‘You are a Jew,’ he said, remembering how much suffering the Cossacks had inflicted on Jewish villages in Russia in their pogroms. The woman looked at him with an expression of surprise.

  ‘How did you know that?’ she asked, her mouth slightly agape to reveal tiny but perfectly aligned teeth.

  ‘One of my best friends in Queensland is Jewish,’ John answered. ‘He and his wife have told me of the purges the Tsar has launched against your people in Russia. My own daughter has an old Jewish name. I had her christened Naomi.’

  ‘But you are not Jewish,’ the Russian woman stated.

  ‘How do you know that?’ John replied with a weak smile.

  ‘Because you had your daughter christened,’ the woman replied, with her own trace of a faint smile. ‘I think that you try to flirt with me, Mr Wong.’

  ‘I would like it that you called me John. It would be nice to hear my name spoken by a beautiful woman in this hellhole of a hospital,’ John said with a widening smile. ‘If it is not forward I would like to know your given name.’

  ‘It is Elizaveta,’ the young woman said. ‘My American friends call me Liza.’

  ‘Well, I am a Queenslander,’ John said with some pride. ‘And I think Liza sounds like a beautiful name.’

  ‘That is enough, Mr Wong, if you wish to have me remain to assist you in your recovery.’

  ‘John, please call me John.’

  ‘To do so would be forward of me,’ Liza replied. ‘I know nothing about you other than that you have a daughter called Naomi – and no doubt a wife.’

  ‘No wife,’ John replied with a note of sadness in his voice. ‘She is dead a long time but left me with a wonderful son and daughter. Both are here in the city. My son Andrew is helping out your doctors and my daughter has been taken by the Boxers. I am here to get her back.’

  Liza registered her surprise. ‘I have met your son, Andrew, but he is Chinese … I am sorry, Mr Wong,’ she said. ‘I did not want you to think that I have a prejudice against Chinese people.’